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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 











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LETHE. 


A NOVEL. 



MAY WRIG6 T. 



CINCINNATI, OHIO: 

Knight a- Co. Steam Printing Works, 210 and 212 Elm Street. 

1883. 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by 
MAY WRIGHT, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congi’ess, at Washington, D. C. 


PREFACE, 


Encouraged by the fiict that there is not a star in the vast firmament 
of God which does not have its seasons of rise and fall, not a flower 
whose existence is not hemmed in by the boundaries of life and death, 
the author sends forth this little book to serve its mission, complete 
its destiny, and then, if fate has so decreed, to sink beneath the horizon 
of popular recognition. 

The book, however, was not written for those who hunger and 
thirst after novelty, romance and adventure, but for the happy few 
who love to contemplate life in all its chilling realities, cold certainties 
and ever changing seasons of cloud and sunshine. The author holds 
that the story is one long drift of natural emotion and thought, which 
throbs in the hearts of all mankind, especially in the young to whom 
the occurrences of every day-life and the high peaks of possible 
attainment, have a strange mystery and enduring charm. 

The hero of the story is the representative of that peculiar age and 
type of human nature, that persists to feast at the table of hope, re- 
gardless of all outward opposing agencies. Throwing away the penny 
he oftimes runs after the shadow of a dollar. Thinking of the future 
he sometimes forgets the demands of the living present. He longs 
for the Utopia of social life but yet never condemns rashly the modern 
systems of educational and moral discipline. The fact is thought to 
be clearly brought forth and emphasized, that virtue is not measured 
by our individual acts, but by our motives as displayed in our 
acts; that seeds of good and evil are in all hearts, but yet, 
only manifest a life as they are encouraged and developed. 


The author has, therefore, chosen a certain Lethe Keynolds whose 
purpose is to proclaim, through her own thoughts and acts, the fact 
that virtue does not depend upon circumstances or conditions, but 
adjusts itself to them, and that circumstances or conditions do not, in 
the least, make or destroy virtue. And so, in order to bring out the 
full and more perfect idea of virtue and womanhood in Lethe, the 
author has thrown about her, the tinsel and lace of pomp, vanity and 
affectation. 

With one word of hope, and that is, that Lethe, Herbert, Pansy, 
Frier and John Mackelsalt, may give the readers of this book a pur- 
chased measure of sorrow and joy, the author closes with Goethe, 
that, “It is not in figures of arithmetic alone that gain presents itself 
before us; fortune is the goddess of breathing men ; to feel her favors 
truly, we must live and be men who toil with living minds and bodies, 
and enjoy with them also,” May Wright. 


^‘But whate’er you are, 

% 

If ever you have looked on better days, 

If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church ; 
If ever sat at any good man’s feast ! 

If ever from your eyelid wiped a tear. 

And know what ’tis to pity, and be pitied, 

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be.” 

Shakespeare. 


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LETHE. 


CHAPTER I. 


“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these, it might have been.” 

Whittier. 

T HEEE is not a day in the week that is looked forward to 
with so much of earnest hope and expectation, bringing as it 
does, a beaker full of ease and happiness, as the day which all people 
in all civilized lands commonly recognize as Sunday. To Herbert 
Snowdown it was of unusual interest, during the busy week he was 
confined in close cpiarters and hedged in from active life. And hence 
he saw very little of the changing varieties of eveiy day experience. 
At times, it is true, he would step out of his solitary castle into the 
noisy ihproughfares of the city, and often sutler himself to drift with 
the surging mass of human life. But on Sunday, the slow and 
measured bound of steed, the languid ringing of church bells, the sky, 
the tree, the flower, and the faces of mankind generally, all brought to 
his heart sensations of an eternal hope, in the prosperity of peace, love 
and truth. Sunday invariably unfolded to him the gay panorama of 
life and drew him nearer and nearer to the heart of Nature and 
humanity. 

It was on one of these bright and pleasant days, when, not only 
Nature but the world seemed to be silent, that Herbert chanced to be 
sitting in the park, now known as the Garfield Place. Very few 
people were astir. It was a time that carried his mind back to days of 


LETHE r 


8 

pleasant dreams, when romance was the only leaven in the priceless 
measure of hope and aspiration; when reality had not tinged his life, 
but when, in a calm and child-like innocence he looked upon all 
things as a part of the great and glorious paradise in which God had 
placed him. His memory was afloat in an atmosphere filled only 
with the zephyrs of Spring and the perfumes of morning And he 
thought again and again, how, when a mere school-boy, he sat, musing 
over book and slate, deeply absorbed in the great possibilities of his 
little being. His aspirations took wing for golden skies and purple 
clouds, and all his roost fleeting hopes became tangible realities. 

But alas! like all unsubstantial things they were soon gone, and he 
mused with much sorrow upon opportunities now gone forever. 

He was in this state of meditation when he thought he heard a voice 
saying, “She was always honest,” and he turned suddenly and 
eagerly around to see the being who could thus intrude upon his 
reveries. 

But no one was near. 

The sun was now gilding the topmost branches of the trees and the 
birds were making melody among the Autumn leaves. The park was 
now comparatively full. Some were relaxing their limbs upon the 
hard benches, §ome were whiling away their hours in quiet conver- 
sation while still others were enjoying the exhilarating eftect of a 
sweet scented havana. Herbert was now meandering up and down 
the walks, almost, it might be said, without a purpose, in every 
sense and faculty invigorated by the fresh cool air. 

“Good morning, Herbert,” and a sweet voice fell upon his ear. 

“Ah! Good morning,” said Herbert, as he turned around to address 
the personage. She was a girl of sixteen summers. Her brown hair, 
clasped in a ribbon of blue, clustered richly about her neck, and 
furnished an artistic relief for her face animated with intellectual 
beauty and characterized by modesty and resignation. Of such a face 
we often think, but more often dream. But it is rarely found in the 


L ET HE. 


9 


gay drawing rooms, the noisy coupe, or among the frivolous circles of 
fashionable society. Xot where Nature’s pets ply their tiny dimpled 
fingers at ric-rack, embroidery and personal decoration. Not where 
languid mortals squander with complete satisftiction, the precious 
hours in a pretentious study of the ceramic art. Not where idle 
maidens loll drowsily on carved sofas, piping Italian sonatas or reading 
Parisian novels, but in the busy kitchen, behind the counter, or, 
wherever humanity cries for help, there is found that face, that life, 
whose infiuences renovate society, build up a substantial, human 
prosperity and promote the universal happiness of mankind. 

“Ah ! Lethe, is that you?” asked Herbert. “You are up with the 
sun and as happy, I suppose, as the birds. Pardoji me, but whither are 
you going?” 

“I am just returning home. To the old home — ” 

“Of Mackelsalt?” returned Herbert. 

“Yes,” replied Lethe, as a shade of sadness stole over her calm face. 

“But — ” 

She hesitated. A pain rushed through her young heart. That old 
familiar pain which is common to all mankind. It has come to the 
first born and has supped at the table of his endless progeny. And 
so will continue to come and sup, until mortality is sent to his narrow 
home forever to be laid at rest. Yet Herbert did not hesitate to 
divine her inward strife. He said, 

“Come, Lethe, you are not concealing anything from me? Iain 
rather suspicious — ” 

“Suspicious, Herbert? Suspicious of what, pray tell me? I have 
said — ” 

“Lethe”, said Herbert, “why all this sadness? Weeks have passed 
and your face still wears the changing seasons of cloud and sunshine. 
You are not concealing an5dhing from me — ” 

“No, nothing, Herbert, nothing at all,” interrupted Lethe. 

“Perhaps not, Lethe. But yet this all seems strange. Your 


10 


L E T 11 E . 


sadness surely has a cause. Perhaps Mr, Mackelsalt mistreats you. 
Perhaps he has stripped you of your liberties. Ah ! Lethe, peace 
may be at your heart, but tell me is he not cruel to you *?” 

“Herbert?” 

“Will you not reply?” 

“There may be some truth in the statement, Herbert,” said I.ethe, 
as she looked curiously into his face. 

“Truth? I know there is. Lethe, I know a little of human nature. 
For, as an artist, I glean up a few sheaves of trickery and deceit from 
oft' the human face, and I soon become acquainted with tlie symptoms 
of villainy?” 

' “Villainy, Herbert? You amaze me!” 

“That may be true Lethe. But pardon me if I speak disrespectfully 
of him. I try to tell the truth. I would not dissimulate I had 
rather—” 

’ “Ah! Herbert!” said Lethe, “I could not believe that he would 
wilfully do a wrong to a poor girl. True, I endure his severity, and 
often it is a disciplinary yoke my young heart would fain throw off. 
But yet I endure it. I am but a poor girl, an orphan, Herbert, as you 
well know. His home is my home, and under his roof have I 
found a reasonable shelter. I can not think for a moment that he 
shelters me from the storm, only to strip me forever of the warm sun- 
shine, my hope and joy. No! I can not think this, Herbert, indeed, 
1 can not.” 

“But yet,” continued Lethe in quite a whisper, and looking at times 
cautiously about her, “I have often seen Mr. and Mrs. Mackelsalt, 
after talking together, wringing their hands, whispering with finger 
on their lip and shaking their heads, look suddenly and surprisingly 
around, and then, with a ‘hush be still,’ resume their several duties. 
This I have seen. But what it all betokens I know not. Of late all 
mj^ letters from you have been intercepted, and — ” 

' “Wliat! Lethe, my letters,” said Herbert, rather startled. 


LETHE. - 11 

“Yes, ana I sometimes think how desolate this world would be, 
could I not hear your cheering words.” 

And tears fell from her soft blue eyes. Herbert felt like caressimr 

her, but the circumstances of the situation would not permit of such 
demonstration. 

“O well!” she continued, wiping the tears from her eyes, “I am 
resigned to duty and I will do the best I can under all circumstances, 
let come what may. "He that fears not the future, may enjoy the 
present,’ Herbert, and if any proverb has spoken the truth this one, 
indeed, has.” 

“Yet, I sometimes think,” and her eyes moist with tears looked 
away toward the east, as if she were divining a new horizon, over 
whose boundary all is serene and joyful, “I sometimes think that 
the pension will come. Some day, at least, it will come, God knows.” 
Grandmother’s last words to Lethe were that she will yet be truly 
happy. 

Here she broke down, for her inward grief was too much. Herbert 
bade her be patient, saying that he would try his best to adjust all 
things. And lest she might arouse the vain curiosities of the mere 
park loungers and idlers, he asked her no further questions. Lethe 
betrayed in all her grief an inward strife of which Herbert knew not. 
That secret which may nestle like the pinion of a dove close to the 
breast and oftimes warm the hearts, may, sometimes, conceal a death 
wound. But life will inevitably tell the tale. Care is a poison whose 
bites and stings eat into the very soul. Yet, how well we Iqve to 
fondle it ! And so Herbert wondered why a thing so vile should seem 
to her so dear. It was growing late and both in close conversation 
passed slowly out of the park. 

“Ah! Herbert,” said Lethe in a sad voice “it is vain, I know, to 
hope for the reward of another’s toil? But when gi-andfather died in 
the Mexican war, a pension was bequeathed to grandmother. But 
grandmother did not wish to share the pension herself, but willed it 


12 


LETHE. 


to her daughter and grandchildren. Yet while poor grandmother 
lived she toiled night and day to obtain it, but without effect. For she 
had very little influence among our executive authorities. The poor 
seldom have. And so, since her death, nothing has been said or done. 
I have the will and papers. But yet the hope of receiving the pension 
now, is to me but the memory of a dream or fancy. Yet I often 
indulge in fancies, for they sometimes make me feel very happy, 
indeed.” 

But nine o’clock was now sounding out upon the clear air and 
Lethe after bidding Herbert farewell, walked slowly to the old 
Mackelsalt home. 


% 



CHAPTER II. 


“I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 

If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale. 

Beneath the milk white thorn that scents the evening vale.” 

It was a local holiday. The year, unprecedented for warmth and 
beauty, lay reposing in the bosom of Indian Summer. The merry 
birds jubilant among the trees were, even at sunrise, flooding the air 
with their delicious melody. The autumn flowers still lingered in 
the wood and glen almost reluctant to die. Everything had life. 
The trees, the stones, the running brooks, all seemed to speak a 
language. 

At the early hour of eight the children who on this day were given 
a season for physical as well as soul enjoyment, and who were per- 
mitted to throw aside the dogeared geography or the grammar lull of 
picturesque ink pictures and monograms, and who, far away from their 
teacher’s loving care, could wander wherever their buoyant spirits 
called them, were pouring out into the vales and hills, eager to pluck 
up the few remaining wild flowers, give chase to the straggling but- 
terflies j roll over the green grass, climb trees and do other novel 
things. And even the aged whose limbs were bent witli time, were 
wending their sad way, somewhere, anywhere, from the smoke and 
noise of the city. 

Holidays have a two-fold significance. They furnish a calm and 
quiet rest to mankind from the daily necessities or requirements of 


14 


LETHE. • 


life, and giv^e him those opportunities for healthful recreation which, 
when rightly utilized, better tit him for the struggle of life. They 
also lend a brighter smile to the laughing face of childhood. They 
banish the shades of grief and sorrow from heavy ladened hearts. 
They tinge the deep vv'rinkles of care and remorse with the sih-er 
lining of peace and bring to all men a lap full of elixirs and 
healing balms. 

The greater part of business vv'as laid aside and the mass of man- 
kind forgetting, for a few' brief moments, the perplexities of toil and 
competition, arranged for pleasure visits in the suburbs. 

Early in the day Mr. Frier left his office and stepping aboard a 
train was borne rapidly out of the smoke of the city into the delight- 
ful atmosphere of the country. AVhen the train reached Vernemus, 
a beautiful suburban place, just about an half-hour ride from the ciy, 
it slackened its speed and Frier together with other town folks, stepped 
off. After making a few casual observations of the surrounding 
landscape he sauntered off toward the knoll of a hill. He came to Ver- 
nemus for no other purpose than to while away his time in capri- 
cious pleasure, and, like a bee, to seek sweets in every possible rural 
confectionary. Indeed, to do anything that would refresh his mind 
and buoy up his depressed spirits. When he reached the top of the 
hill, he saw at a distance, wrapped in a purple film of mist, the 
,villiage lawn, as it was called, where he, in his boyhood, had spent 
many precious hours. Toward this place he now bent his steps. 

While he was walking across the several roads, he came upon the 
rather modest t3^pe of a countiy girl, usuallj' called by the ai)propriate 
name of Maud. She did not have a rake in her hand , nor a pail of 
milk, be it understood, for she was of the higher class. At first 
sight one would say that she was beautiful, but, as the e^'e lingered 
upon her face and form, the combined features lost their charm and 
flowing lines. For her statue was made bj' those treacherous, deceiv- 
ing, most vain artists. Self, Mirror and Co. As she approached Frier 


I 


• LETUP. . 15 

smiled. She smiled. Frier spoke. She spoke — not. And Maud 
thinkino- that she had played a ‘‘legal rub” on Frier tripped away 
laughing merril}' at his disappointment. But Frier overpowered by 
her audacity turned automatically around and to his complete satis- 
faction gazed at her until she had banished from his sight. He 
resumed his march but not before he dotted down that hit of 
conquetry in his pocket memorandum. 

He moved on, and at length , reached the familiar lawn. Every 
thing was beautiful and natural. The tall trees, the gravel walks, the 
waters and the dowers kissing their foaming lips, brought to his 
mind the associations of his childhood. All things were arranged 
for the comfort and pleasure of man, of which pleasure Frier took 
advantage. He threw himself lazily upon the grass beside the clear 
water and Narcissus-like toyed with his own redected image. 
Finall 3 ’he grew tired of tliat’vanity and indulged in a far greater one. 
He began to stare at the sun and would have, no doubt, eyed old 
Phoebus out of countenance had not the meriy ring of voices awakened 
him to the realities of life and reminded him that, after all, he was but 
a foolish Clytia. Perhaps, he might have been less. 

He looked aside and there to his surprise, seated in a phaeton were 
his two friends, his cousin Jennie Frier and her companion Pansy 
Sky. Miss Frier drew up the phaeton close to the road side, and after 
both stepping out and throwing back their dusters into the vehicle, 
and, after adjusting their external appearances to please the imagina- 
tive ej^e of Frier, or perhaps their own, thej^ shook hands. 

“Why Jennie that is a nose-gay for Venus,” said Frier as he gazed 
upon a choice combination of hot-house flowers which were adjusted 
artistically to her bosom. “May I smell them?” continued Frier. 

“Certainly, Harry,” said Miss Frier, little aware of the trick he was 
about to perform. He went to smell the flowers and as Jennie bent 
down her face to look upon him. Frier gently kissed her cheek in- 
stead. 


16 


LETHE. 


“But truly Jennie I am glad to see you, and Pansy, you look well. 
You are out early this morning, are you not?” 

“Yes, cousin,” replied Miss Frier, “the morning air is so refresh- 
ing, so fragrant and all that, so tilled with the music of the birds, 
that, for the last two years, I have fallen insensibly into the custom of 
early driving. I start from home, drive over Clifton andMt. Auburn, 
thread my way through the most interesting parts of the suburbs,- 
view the familiar landscape, inhale the sweet air and then return 
home, feeling, indeed, strengthened and enlivened for the duties of 
the day.” 

“I presume” said Frier, “that this is the cause of your unusual 
height?” 

“O, you are always talking about my height. I guess I had better — ” 

“Yo! I guess you had better not,” returned Frier, as he struck her 
gently on the cheek with his hand and smiled at her. 

“But pardon me. Hairy, I believe I forgot something,” said Miss 
Frier, somewhat amazed. 

“Why, what is that?” interrogated Frier. 

“My good manners, Harry, But it is never too late to mend, thej’- 
say. So come. Pansy, allow me to acquaint you with my cousin, Mr. 
Harry Frier.” 

“Thanks! Jennie,” replied Frier, “but I have met her before. In 
fact, we are old friends.” 

“Indeed,” replied Jennie, as sjie gazed doubtfully, at Pansy and 
Mr. Frier. “Indeed !” 

“Why, certainly !” said Frier. “Surely it is not a crime to be ac- 
quainted? Yor even a cause for surprise. Yes, Jennie, we are old 
friends, old, you.know. Our friendship has moss all over it. Has it 
not Pansy ? 

• Pansy blushed and amused herself counting the buttons on her 
tiny shoe. Pansy was a young lady of just eighteen summers. Fair 


LETHE. 17 

as the roses which liung blushing from her bosom. A little mischie- 
vous sort of girl she seemed, with her facehid underalarge strawhat. 
She was very plump in her physical appearance, and, as for her walk, 
it was characterized by a peculiar bend, which, by the way, was all 
the fashion. But she gave to him no reply. 

Ihe three then busied themselves in the usual vanities of fashion- 
able conversation, such , as dinners spent here, socials there, soirees 
^ hei e and tea parties there, candy-pullings here and surprises there, non- 
sense here and nonsense there, until, at last, growing tired of rehears- 
ing a song that has live hundred odd verses, but all of the same nature, 
they took advantage of the waiting horse and drove quickly out of the 
village lawn. The steed trotted away amid a cloud of dust, and at a 
rate perfectly satisfactory to Mr. Frier and the ladies. And thus they 
spent the greater part of the morning until dinner time grew near, 
when Twilight, for that was the horse’s name, entered into the portals 
of the dark stable, where the hostler received him with remarkable 
attention. 

Before we journey on any further, it will be well for us to describe 
the Frier Mansion, as it was called. It stood on a gently sloping hill 
looking upon all the four points of the compass. The house was con- 
spicuous for miles around, and the traveler who journeyed that way 
would often pause to wonder at its singular appearance, a)ul inquire of 
the owner. It was not, however, a miracle of architecture. But it 
was odd, and oddities, to a greater or less degree, charm the observing 
eye. True, it was prepossessing and beautiful, yet it was retired and 
simple. Adorned with no extravagant waste of art material, or prod- 
igal disi^hi}’^ of talent or genius. Yet it was marked by some lines and 
curves of beauty. But nowhere could be seen any traces of the 
Gothic or Corinthian schools. Skirting the foot of the hill was a 
drive which led, after branching off into quite a number of ramifica- 
tions, to the mansion itself. These ramifications had the eflect 
to give beauty to the hill, and to furnish certain convenient as well as 


18 


LETHE. 


interesting places for flowers, shrubs and trees. Toward the east, and 
gently curving toward the small lake, where the frogs, notwithstand- 
ing the gardener’s “Take Notice, No Frogs Admitted,” were accus- 
tomed to congregate, was a lawn. Here the numerous friends of the 
Friers were wont to gather and indulge in the general games of rural 
sport. The Frier property covered about twenty acres. It was, 
indeed, beautifully surrounded. Way off toward the north were the 
purple woods. Toward the east and south lay the slumbering village. 
Toward the west were large fields of waving corn, oats and fruit 
trees filled with mellowed leaves. Such were the characteristics of 
the place. 



CHAPTER III. 


Frier, -after leaving the ladies, and after talking a few moments with 
Mrs. Frier and her neice, retired into the private room of his cousin, 
Frank Frier. Frank was a highly educated man and skilled in the 
leading questions of science. Prosperitj' had not blessed him with 
her abundance without his proper reciprocation, for he so utilized 
his means and time that he soon became the model of an unfailing 
integrity and noble character. They were soon busied in philosophic 
reveries. After reviewing the questions of evil and good as mere 
relations, and passing over the fact that man’s adjustment to cause and 
effect is the real and only end of existence, Mr. Frank Frier said — 

“Characters, like civilization, are the creatures of an evolving intel- 
ligence, depending not only upon the adjustment of cause and effect to 
being, but also upon the great principles of destiny. We all know that 
in the prehistoric ages man was closely akin to the lower animals. He 
had a spiritual nature, but all its powers and forces of development 
were dormant in consciousness. His aspirations were impeded by 
passion and appetite, and his intelligence was even on par with his 
spiritual qualities. It was a perpetual struggle with man to emanci- 
pate himself from self, and submit to the noblest ideals of life. And 
so, all along the line of history we see how man was, of his own accord, 
compelled to endure the pangs from bi-oken laws and violated 
principles. 

“There is a knowable and an unknowable. The one is built on 


20 


LETHE. 


science, the other on faith. We may know only that which comes 
within the grasp of consciousness. We may hope for the knowl- 
edge of the unknowable.” 

“But are we satisfled?” queried Frier. 

“No! Mankind is, has been, and always will be adventurous. He 
will push investigation even beyond the regions of possibility. And 
doubting reports, records and philosophies, he will plunge blindly into 
the mysteries of God. But yet wisdom has a charm, precious and 
lasting. Her cheeks are always flushed with immortal beaut3^ Her 
proportions are enchanting. Her eyes have the fulness of loveliness 
and coquetiy, and we shall listen to her teachings when care is a 
forgotten thing, and when time has broken all crucibles, destroj^ed 
all art, and rolled up the heavens like a scroll. 

Yet there is a revelation of which we can boast with some degree 
of certainty, and that is the revelation of Nature. Now, whether man 
evolved from an animal very low in regard to, being, oi-, whether he 
was created out of the dust of the earth, in the twinkle of an e^^e, are 
questions which are still coupled with much unexplained inysteiy. We 
know, however, that — 

“To every form of being is assigned, 

An active principle, howe’er removed, 

From sense and observation ; it subsists 
In all things, in all natui’e, in the stai’s 
Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds 
That pave the brook.” 

“Indeed, we are privileged to say more. We know that every effect 
has some antecedent cause. That back of eveiy phenomenon there is 
an active principle of life and purpose. So it is just as impossible for 
us to conceive of the universe and of its laws, without thinking 
equally of a primal everlasting cause, as it is to think of space without 
length, and matter without form. Because Newton placed the universe 
into the hands of law, it does not follow that law is independent. 
Were we forced to believe this, man ’svould justly ask the question 


L E THE. 


21 


who or what fashioned the law. Electricity may produce heat, heat 
affinity, affinity light, and light in turn electricity. All this is true. 
But back of all these kinships and relations of forces there is a cause still 
unknown. There is a relativity of forces, as of ideas, and however 
round and perfect the circle may be, still we must admit that all 
their phenomena depend alike upon that invisible power, which 
escapes the chemist as well as the philosopher in all his experiments 
and deductions. There is a principle behind the flower, and in all the 
changing varieties of the vegetable life, there is prevalent a vitality 
which is the organizing element of their infinite forms and relations. 
So the body of the universe moves on, and so the intelligent spirit is 
manifested day by day.” 

“Do you believe,” said liis cousin, “that evolution is for the bet- 
terment of mankind*?” 

“Certainly I do. Each age has its decay. Each decay has its new 
growths and civilizations. The powerful eras of the centuries may 
pass away with all their institutions, but not without leaving in their 
decaying elements some germs whose destinies point to the higher 
and grander development. Along the line of natural growth is seen 
the ruins of governments, dynasties and people. The strong has ever 
subdued the weak, while the impartial force of love is working her 
beauties in the fabric of evolving civilizations. Eight, the protection 
to the weak and misfortunate is overcoming the destructive element 
of might. Barbarism is rapidly emerging into the light of the com- 
mon safet.y. Fire, scourge, pestilence, earthquakes, finally all natu- 
ral phenomena are no longer the signs of God’s wrath, but the 
disciplinary means for man’s growth and culture. All customs and 
habits are fringed with the sunlight of reformation. The good has 
always outlived the evil, and justice is transplanting cruelty and 
anarchy. The better times are coming to all governments, and Greek 
as well as Barbarian will soon have the like privilege of enjoying the 
liberty and peace of the larger and grander life.” 


22 


LETHE . 


“It has taken man a long time.” interrupted Frier, “to know 
himself.” 

“Ah! that is a fact too true. And when Byron exclaims, in his 
Ohilde Harold, 

“Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,” 

We must remember that she was only such in reality to 
those who obeyed her laws. ,Law is her established order, and when 
you put your Anger between Xature’s cogs she will crush it, 
whether you are a Pagan or a ChristiaJi. Habitual sacrifices 
to Nature, for open violations of her laws, did not bring 
reconciliation or peace to the mind of the savage. Nature offers no 
apologies or terms of compromise. Her penny for penny is an 
undeniable fact. She gives proper compensation for all levies on her 
worth and dignity. Nor does she ever counterfeit. There is one grand 
fact about nature, and that is she never bears false witness. Her 
records are always reliable, and her laws are for the benefit of the 
obedient and wise, as well as for the instruction of the ignorant and 
unfortunate. 

“Indeed, it took a long time. It took years and ages for the popular 
mind to frame that state of intellectual organization which permitted 
them, without any remorse of conscience, to tear down the blue Olym- 
pus of tradition and establish the true religion where Greek is equal to 
Barbarian, and where all men are proportionately endowed with the 
liberty of law. We must not cruelly break the idols of the savage nor 
destroy the books of superstition, for they are the historic links 
which unite the old with the new, and chain the changing circle of 
development to one fundamental principle of progress and association. 

- The good and evil are always with us, for they are of matter and life. 
To do wrong is just as possible now as.it was in years gone by. 
Civilization is an old quality of body and spirit. Like the earth, it has 
its transits, eclipses and geographic changes. Progress disseminates 
the light and scatters the forces of darkness. Each age is an upward 


I 


LETHE. 23 

Step although its coniponent parts are ofttiuies retrograding. Every 
passion mastered is a spiritual gain. Conditions are changing, 
human natures are changing, everything is changing, yet the results 
seem proportioned. Our only hope of happiness is, finally, in this 
channel, to abhor that which is evil and cleave to that which is good ; 
and the issues of our life will, inevitably, be among green pastures 
and beside still waters.” 

“But, do you believe,” said Harry Frier, who had been as patient in 
his listening as his cousin had been in talking, “that all animals are 
possessed of an Ego?"*' 

“Certainly I do. But they possess it only in a limited sense. 
Intelligence is but a nom deplume for knowledge. And what we call 
instinct, in the lower animal, is but another name for nascent power 
that enables the animal to judge of the relations about him. But I 
was going to conclude, in my present remarks upon man’s evolution 
from a lower life, that it was only as he cast off his barbarism, laid 
down the physical 'and acquired the spiritual, subdued inordinate 
passion and appetite, that he became more intimately acquainted with 
Nature, himself and his destiny, I could have enlarged on the 
subject, and have told how man has really emerged from the chrysalis 
of weakness and ignorance into the better forms of life. I could have 
quoted history to vindicate the fact, that the New Jerusalem is not to 
come down out of heaven, but that we as individual mechanics are to 
build up that glorious, ideal city, that Utopia, whose power, strength 
and beauty will reach up into heaven. The city then will be built 
up into heaven, let us say.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


Frier fell into a meditation. lie tlioiiglit how time was a “beautifier 
of the dead and adorner of the ruin.” How wisdom brings about the 
right adjustments of cause and effect. And he said to himself, “I 
cannot overleap the property of my being, although lam a free moral 
agent. I am hemmed in by reasonable impossibilities. I must think 
and labor within the license of existence, and walk patiently along the 
line of law. To overstep the boundary on either side is to bring upon 
my own head condemnation and pain.” 

But he was relieved from any further soliloquy by an interruption 
from his cousin. 

“Harry, is it not a cause of much wonder to you how some men do 
succeed in life? I have often wondered how future actions could ever 
compensate for a past spent in rioto is living, and full of stumbling 
error and failure. I have marveled at sluggish youth in all his 
aims and purposes, but yet my face was soon colored with surprise 
when I found him successful in old age, having finally wrested from 
fate his wished for prize. I have looked down with much pity upon 
those who were, in their wild days, reckless, in:lifferent and ignorant; 
but my eyes soon brightened with joy, when I found that, by a turn of 
life, a determination to conquer themselves and opposing agencies, 
they at last won the admiration and well done, which is the fruit 
onl}" of a diligent, sacrificing and careful life.” 


I “'ies, Frank, it is a surprising thing to me how some men do suc- 
ceed in life. Their youth is spent in idleness, and their age of severe 
responsibility is filled with trities and error. Yet to some 
indi\ iduals the question of success is of no great moment. 
Their whole being is pervaded by a consciousness that they 
will succeed, and that suffices. They seldom look to superficial 
gains, to letters of recommendation or degrees of honor, but 
they plod on in the common path of life, in the pilgrimage of 
common humanity, growing daily in purpose and energy, by a 
diligent application, until they tower above the level of their 
fellows. Life to them is not a mathematical problem, made uj) 
of proportioned results and evenly balanced accounts, but it is 
a Thy will be done, strong and perpetual. Yes, we may build our 
houses upon the earth, but if the earth is sand our houses will soon 
fall. So with character, our principles must be rooted in virtue 
and integrity.” 

Here the call for dinner rang through the hall, and Frier, in 
company with his cousin Frank, walked leisurely down the velvet 
staircase toward the dining loom. When they had passed the first 
flight of the stairs Frank Frier paused. 

the b3'e, Hariy, j'our little dove is out here?” 

^‘Yes,” replied Frier, “she met me at Vernemus. She is stay- 
ing here for a short time, is she not?” 

“AVell, 3'es, Harry. She came here last Sundaj', and has been 
here ever since. She will be in the ciW this coming Sunda}’' night, I 
presume. At all events, Harrj', don’t miss j^our opportunity. She is 
passing fair and rich too, and — ” 

“Were she as rich as Croesus and as beautiful as Helen I could 
love her no more than T now do.” 

“So, you really love her, Harry? Well ! But mark 1113^ word, you 
will not be with her a veiy long time. You are 3"oung, twenty 


26 


LETHE. 

years? Well! That love is transitory and unsubstantial in most 
cases. And she Many — she is as tickle as an April day I” 

“Enough, Frank! That is for me to discover, and until I do, I 
shall never change my present feeling.” 

“So persist, Harry, but the road will soon bend. A^ou have her 
ring, too? Nay, do not deceive me. Come, Harry, I wish to be 
just to you. I know that that very ring has been on the linger of 
two before you. Nay, do not frown at me, for I tell you the truth.” 

The dinner call was again sounding out upon the quiet air, and 
both, in order to avoid further demonstration of the same, proceeded 
into the dining room. 

After dinner several of the ladies of the village made their 
appearance. The various games were brought forth, including 
croquet, lawn tennis and archery. And so at these various games of 
amusement they busied themselves until twilight set in, when the 
ladies retired to their respective homes, amid merry laughter, cheer- 
ful Avords, songs and good-byes. 

But Frier and Pansj’^, locking arms, sauntered otf to the little 
meadow and the little brook (Avhich seldom have a real existence),, 
in search of wild flowers and anything but — love. They passed 

quietly under the fragrant arbor, the fruit trees, crossed the road, 
plucked a few leaves from the roadfside shrubs, ’ threw them 
carelessly into the air, and sat down at the roots of a large Avalnut 
tree amid all the sweet associations of the occasion. The soft zephyrs 
stealing out upon the air were rustling among the leaves. The • 
indistinct murmurs of the babbling brook could just be heard. The 
old fashioned crickets Avere chirping their loA’e ditties among the 
rocks and grasses, and the fireflies Avho mimic the light of 
heaven Avere sparkling here and there in the air. The rosy tints 
of the setting sun Avere iioaa’^ tipping the tree tops Avith gold and 
purple, and all objects losing their dij^inctive individualities, Avere 
one Avith the somber tints of night. 



LETHE. 


27 

“There is a beauty in twilight,” said Frier, as he looked dreamingly 
at the setting sun, “that I never can explain. The night blending 
imperceptibly with the day, leinind me often of life and death. These 
flowers at our feet, yes, these tiny bladbs of grass, are all passing 
elements. Pansy.” 

“Yes, and this is a passing element,” said Pansy, as she laid her 
head upon his shoulder. “But I was going to say, Harry,” con- 
tinued Pansy, “I was going to say — ” 

“Well, what is it, Pansy,” inquired Frier. 

“I was going to say, that the best seasons of our life are passed in 
just such moments as these.” 

And as she said this she placed her hands about his neck and 
looked languidly into his face*. Frier drew his arm about her and 
pressed her to himself. 

They fain would have remained in this place forever. But there 
must be a cessation of happiness. And the silver cord must be 
broken, alas, too soon. The night had rushed down from the sky, and 
the dew was now kissing the animate as well as inanimate objects 
as a token of her impartiality. Pansy and Frier remained there for 
a long time, but at length arose and went slowly away to the 
mansion singing softly in united voices a ditty to the primrose, 

“The stars are. sweet at eventide, 

But cold, and far away; • 

The clouds are soft in summer time, 

But all unstable they : 

The rose is rich— but pride of place 
Is far too high for me— 

God’s simple common things I love— 

My primrose, such as thee.” 

They retired that night, but not without a kiss at parting, 
to their respective rooms. And when the sun proclaimed the birth 
of a new day. Frier took breakfltst, bade good-bye to Pansy and to 
his relatives, and went to town on the six-thirtj’^ train. 


'-Vr- -■ 





/ 


CHAPTER y. 


It will be proper here to describe the house wherin' Herbert 
Snowdown found his temporary home. It was a large three-story brick, 
the front i)ortion being beautifully decorated and embellished. It 
was situated on one of the out of the way thoroughfares of the city, and 
in consequence of two large trees which stood in the front, there was 
always around the house 'numerous birds, to make the gloomy hours 
of the inmates, if gloomy hours they had, full of sunshine and life. 
The house, however, was quite old and dilapidated ; yet it wore very 
well, and on its face still lingered some traces of its youthful beauty. 
No ivy grew on its sides, nor was there any sign of a statue to grace 
the garden walk. Everything in and about the place was adjusted 
to the modern principles of economy and usefulness. The only 
ornaments, if ornaments they may be called, were groups of little 
dirty faced boys, emblems of ragged humanity, who made the 
territory about this house their headquarters and local temple. And, 
sitting in groups about tbe curbstones, they would relate of “Jack 
the Giant Killer,” “Jack and the Bean Stalk” and “Cinderella,” and 
each one, with untold delight, would spin out some new and 
interesting story they had recently heard, and thus while away 
their precious time far from their mother’s fond caresses. 

The inner apartments bore some traces of refinement. But the 
walls, even though they were newly papered, were moldy and damp, 
while the ceilings were quite dusty, and the woodwork unvarnished. 


LETHE. 


29 


All the rooms were to let save those occupied by Miss Jenning, a dress- 
maker, Mr. Quintus, a lawyer, and Harry Frier, his coequal, Mr. Kan- 
dall, Mr. Herbert Snowdown, the artist, and the landlord, a very easy 
going man, who. occupied, with his famil}'^, three rooms on the lower 
floor. Mr. Quintus had his offlce on the second floor, directly opposite 
to that of Miss Jenning, and, owing to Miss Jenning’s mild disposition 
and the principles of female liberty that she advocated, he had nailed 
a sign upon his door bearing the following laughable inscription, 
“All Information upon questionsof Woman’s Suftrage and the Genesis 
of a better Female Existence can be had within. Free of Cost.” And 
every one who entered Miss Jenning’s door would pause to read the 
contents of that so-called “Second Declaration of Independence, 
and it gave them vim to plead their cause and work their end, to 
demand a tighter fit or a narrower waist from iMiss Jenning. 

But the apartment of Mr. Snowdown is particularly interesting. 
His studio was situated on the third floor, and^ from any of the 
windows of his room one could get a fine view of the neighboring 
landscape. His room resembled a studio in all respects, dlie 
dressing room was separated from the studio proper by a large 
drooping curtain made of fine green cashmere. The studio was 
embellished with paintings of his own hand. The walls were hung 
with some remnants of mediaival armor, crayons and bas-reliefs. 
Here hung the full size drawing of Venus de Medici, there, the huge 
form of the Gladiator and Discobus, and in the corners, where the 
shadows found a reasonable shelter, Herbert had placed a brazen 
armor and huge vases, the gifts of his old art companions. On the 
windowsill were a few scraps of bric-a-brac, and in them were 
growing those flowers that he treasured so dearly. He had two 
curiously carved pallets, emblems of genius, hanging on the 
wall near the window. And close to the same window, where the 
sun poured in his yellow geld, he had placed his easel. 

“A moth it is to trouble the mind’s eye,” said Herbert, as ho 


entered the studio. Could that Mr. Mackelsalt be the possessor of her 
fortune, and could he be wilfully keeping her in social degradation, 
was a question that he could not answer. And he pondered 
seriously upon the conversation of last week, looking through every 
circumstance in search of the cause of I.ethe’s grief, but he came to 
no deflnite result. The more he studied her condition, however, the 
deeper grew his interest, and he longed for another conference. 

It may be a false saying that misery loves company, but Herbert, 
who had never known a day flooded with sunshine since he was cast 
upon his own responsibilities, fully sympathized with Lethe. 
Herbert was not a stranger to sorrow. His life long ago was moored 
in its harbor. Only at times would he catch a stray glimpse of 
happiness, and that would be at twilight. Then, indeed, his aftections,' 
like weary birds eager for a home of rest and quietude, would wing 
their ideal flight up the path of floating sunshine toward a fairer 
shore. 

In the city Herbert was not patronized; yet he labored with brush 
and pallet, among the best and cultured of society, and yet he was 
surprisingly neglected. His neglect, however, cannot be attributed to 
any lack of real merit in his oil and water colors, for, at the Academy, 
and among foreign exhibitors, and wherever his name was mentioned, 
he was spoken of as an artist equal to any of his time. Besides, he 
found among art loving people, generally, a genial soul, among 
whose influences he loved to be. At the Academy he had carried off 
the flrst of her prizes, and had thus gained a local reputation. His 
prizes he would fain have coined into much usefulness , but he 
could not. Like Jean Francois Millet, and yet so unlike him, he 
never painted for public taste, nor sacrificed natural enthusiasm, 
or nascent genius for popular applause. Perhaps, this was one of 
the main causes for his frequent suftVring, deprivation and casual 
despair. 

“Yet, let it be so,” he would say, “for nobility to me is a common 


L ET HE. 


31 


heritage, equally enclowecl by the Creator upon all his children.” 
And so he would not draw the line in society between rich and 
poor, learned and unlearned. But philosophy is worth, seemingly, 
very little in an age of business prowess, flollar and cents, and 
mercantile advancement. And poetry, as well as art are good only 
to be studied in deserted Alhambras, ruined mosques, back, way back 
among times immemorial and wrinkled ages. 




V 


CHAPTER VI. 


So thought Herbert. At least his countenance seemed to have an 
expression which betokened that thought, as he gazed out of an 
open window upon the half deserted street. 

It was midday, and the sun was boiling away in the azure sky. 

Just as he was about to resume his work, Mr. Frier, his satellite 
Mr. Quintus, and Mr. Randall opened the door, and after 
exchanging hearty shakes of the hand, seated themselves here and 
there about the room. 

‘‘I say. Herb,” said Mr. Randall, “you had better remove that 
painting from the easel or you will freeze us out.” 

Mr. Randall was referring to a snowstorm which ^Ir. Snowdown 
had but recently painted, and one in which he brought out the effect 
of cold and chilliness almost to a reality. 

“Yes,” returned Herbert, “there is something cold about that 
picture. I had to use my overcoat and hat while I was painting it.” 

Hereupon Mr, Randall smiled, and asked Herbert how he got 
along with hunger and poverty. 

Whereupon Herbert said, that, “whenever he wished a rich apple 
or a luscious pear, or any other article of food, all he had to do was to 
paint the article desired, and then set table and have the banciuet.” 

Here Mr. Randall and Quintus enjoyed a hearty laugh, while Mr. 
Snowdown, stepping aside, began tQ explain the philosophy of his 
new oil, called “The prodigality of beauty,” to Mr. Randall, 


I 


33 


L E THE. 

“By the bye, Herb,” .said Frier, interrupting them, “bow about 
tlie portrait of Miss Adelaide Sky*?” 

As be said this, he ejected from bis upper ve.st pocket an old 
silver lime piece and was deeply absorbed in its cbionological 
history. 

“It is almost finished, Mr. Frier; just a few more touches and you 
may have it.” 

“About what time. Herb?” 

“ Well— say— about three days,” returned Herbert. 

“Very well,” returned Frier. “I am perfectly satisfied. But the 
juore so since 1 shall not disappoint the si.ster of my aftection. 
Humph, pardon me, gentlemen, I mean—” 

“Oh,, we know what you mean,” returned the trio, almost 
spontaneously. “Why, certainly, Friei’, we know what you mean, 
repeated Herbert. “But don’t let the Pansy wilter in your Inuids. 
Pansies are very frail flowers, you know, tond of the shade. Don t 
give them too much sunlight; but, gentlemen,” continued Herbert, 
placing his hands upon the • shoulders of Mr. Quintus and 
Randall, “if he plays the troubadour he will come out all right.” 

Saying this Herbert smiled, and the rest followed in laughter. But 
Frier \\°as not to be defeated with a trifle, for hopping around 
the studio Avith an old tambourine, which he had taken down from 
its place on the wall, and adjusting his shape to some self-pleasing 
attitude, and cocking his hat on one side and assimulating a very 
defiant look, he burst out: 

“Oh ho! I’ll be a very nice a-la-de-troubadour. But I’ll make 
the Moiitug.ies fly. I’ll be the Capulet and all the suitors put 
together.” 

“That’s enough. Frier,” .said Quintus, “on that statute, so gether it 
up and put it in your pocket.” 

“Very well, Mr. Quintus,” said Frier, “it shall be as you say.” 


31 LETHE. 

So s;iyiii<^, the three lawyers takin<^ up their hats stepped out of the 
door into the hall. 

“A nioiiient, Herh,” said Frier, looking about him. 

“Well, Mr. Frier?” 

“Did I leave anything behind?” 

“Xot that I know of,” returned Herbert. 

“Why, eertainly I did, eertainly I did,” urged Frier. 

“Well, what is it?” said Herbert, growing somewhat imi)atient. 

“My — my — best wishes,” said Frier, as he hastily withdrew. 

Here they smiled, and Herbert, lighting a match, in order that 
they might see their way down the stairs safely (for it was very dark 
there even at midday), bade them good-night. 

It wasbutfour o’clock, and Herbert, seating himself at an open 
window where the soft zephyrs, ladened with the perfumes of the 
garden tlowers, floated into the room, began to sleep. 

The weary hours wore on, and still he slept. The twilight set in, 
and night, pouring down-her dark shades from distant realms, spread 
a soft cloak of sable darkness over all the world and still he slept. 
The planets came out, as heralds of the night, and then the stars, 
and then Charles Wane peeped above the northern horizon. And 
still he slept I What cared he now for the trials of the day, for the 
bread of the future, for the perplexing problems of life, 

Sleej) l)i-ings to some life a glorious calm. It drives away the 
gnawing tooth of torture. It breaks the bonds of self. It sets 
tlie captive soul at liberty and peace. Perhaps, even now, he 
was loitering with Lethe along some shady nook, or, in close 
embrace, was talking of a home which the hopes and Joj'^s of many 
years had been building. Perhaps, he was among the dear 
ecnnpanions of his learned art, with the fii-st patrons and founders of 
the Italian school, with Cimabue and Giotti and their illustrious 
R'tinue. Perhaps he was in pleasant chat with Parhasius, or 


Apelles, or even Protogenes V Who could tell, or who dared to hope 
or think otherwise. 

But hush I his hands grow restless ; the calm has left his face and 
troubled clouds seem to flit over every feature. Large drops of 
perspiration fall from his face. What can all this mean? How 
sudden the change. Thank God I the restless spirit has left him, and 
his face is again calm, serene, happy. 

But no! the angry demon has.come again. Fate wrestles with his 
joy. The vulture is at his vitals. He rises. He grapples with the 
shadows. He speaks. 

‘‘Take my hand from your throat? No! Give me the girl; tell me 
the truth. The money, give them to me, or by heaven, I’ll throw you, 
feeble as you are, with all your weakness, dead upon the floor.” 

Just then he awoke. The room was very dark. He looked wildly 
about him. He hastily lit a candle, and taking it in one hand 
moved toward the door. It was closed. He went to the window 
It was open, and the bric-a-bracs along its sill were undisturbed. He 
scanned each separate object, but all was safe, and displayed no signs of 
removal or commotion. He then brushed his hands through his hair, 
rubbed his eyes, and could scarcely force himself to believe that he 
was conscious. At last, sinking in the same chair from which he 
arose, he muttered to himself, “thank God, it was but a.dream.” 



CHAPTER VII. 


After a nia^lit spent in restless sleep Herbert arose, dressed himself, 
and ate a few slices of bread. He then seated himself at his easel, 
and was about to work on a sketch for the Academy, when he 
heard a (pieer sort of noise on the stair-case. Herbert’s door was 
open and he could distinctly hear all that was spoken. 

“Hal Say? Ah! hic-H’rb. Pshaw — h — what am I say-y-g,” 

“What does this mean,” said Herbert to himself, “somebody 
calling my name!” 

Half startled, he ventured toward the door, but the voice still 
continued. 

“Hello, ’ere — say — a — Her — ya — a — wher’s Har’y yerb — eh ?” 

Hereupon Herbert came to a front to front encounter with the 
gentleman. He had a very fashionable carry, but its strength was 
marred by a little dissipation. 

“Mr. Randall, I suppose?” said Herbert. 

He did not recognize him. And to his easy rolled out in- 
terrogatory — “Hello, there — eh— wher’s Fr-i-r-boy — la-hic-hic-ic — 
eh?” 

Herbert responded, “Why, right over there.” 

“Right over ’ere — eh?” 

“Yes; one whirl down the stairs, sir, one whirl down the stairs, 
then turn to your right, sir, turn to your right; name is on the door, 
name is on the door, sir.” 


LETHE. 37 

Herbert thought he had better repeat the facts once or twice 
in order that the inipression might be more lasting. 

“Frier, eh?” reiterated Mr. Rai\dall. 

“The same, sir,” said Herbert. 

“Thank — a — sir — yes — t’right, eh — ah ?” 

“Yes; turn to your right,” Herbert repeated, as Randall moved 
down the stairs. 

Herbert returned to his studio, scarcely influenced by this untimely 
and rude intrusion. Seating himself at his accustomed place he 
pored thoughtfully over his canvas. ‘ He was remarkably struck by 
the ettect of Chiaroscuro, the beauty of the distant hills and the 
purple clouds, the soft velvety grass, the waving trees and the passing 
birds, until he thought that the painted landscape was Nature itself, 
although it was but the fiction of thought and the product of a vivid 
imagination. The grass began to wave, the birds began to sing, the 
clouds began to move, and Herbert felt upon his flushed cheek the 
fanning breezes of Springtime, and he saw walking on the roadside 
the images of two well known personages, and one indeed was 
Lethe Reynolds. 

“Ah!” thought Herbert, “such is the beauty of an imagination. 

4 It gives to death the stamp of life and to inanimate ol)jects the motion 
of being. Creating out of color the medium of happiness and joy, 
and giving to every fond, lingering hope a blessed habitation.” 

And thus he mused, and thus he felt, as he laid on the can\as 
each separate color. At last, weary and tired, he arose and moved 
toward the door. He did not ’intend to replenish his pallet with 
new color, nor fill the oil vessel with fresh oil; but he laid aside his 
implements, his brushes, mahl stick and rule, and was about to read 
some late art journal, when he was startled by seeing on the floor 
near the closed door two letters. No envelopes were about them. 
Hastily reseating himself he opened the folded paper. Both letters 
were vvritten in a lady’s hand. The first read thus : 


38 


LETHE. 


“My Dearest I — 

“I have been working very hard to-day endeavoring to linish iny 
dress. I succeeded in finishing tlie skiit, but the rest remains stili 
undone. My dear boy, you mentioned in yoiir note the thonglit of 
individual remembrance; please believe me that never a moment 
or second jjasses l)ut what you are with me. Do you fully realize 
what you have said to me ? 1 almost feel confident that you ai-e too 
hasty in your judgment; I am unworthy of all you confess. You 
now ask for a letter full of life. No words, paper or pencil 
win express my feelings. But 1 beg you , as an act of personal 
favor, that you earnestly reconsider what you have said in the past, 
and see if you will not, some da}^, peihaps in the near and 
approaching future, regret of, all you have so openly confessed. 
Now this may seem foolish to you, but I would have you do just as 
I say, and perhaps 5^011 may thank me. You spoke, in your last 
letter, of the College of Music, of the grand opportunities afiorded 
for musical enjoyment and the like. You fuither said that we 
were watched very closely . This is not strange ; I fully expected it. 
Oh, well, what care 1? Let the people wonder, let them say all they 
may, 1 will remain as ever your frail but ever constant, 

Pansy.” 

“P. S. — O that to-morrow would be to-day I But I shall wait, 
and long and watch until that precious hour comes. 

Pansy.” 


Herbert continued to reail the second letter : 

* “My Dearest:— 

“What a strange being 1 am. How fickle and how changeable. 
Surely 1 was misnimed when they called me Pansy, 1 ought to 
have been called chameleon. What kind of an opinion must 
you have of me, by this time? Adelaide is in a great huiry and 
Hurry, and— well, I won’t say anymore— to get her "dresses finished, 
since the wedding is coming oft’ so very, very soon. Sol have been 
sewing and busying myself about " the house all day, finding 
scarcely any time at all to even think of you. But, my dear, dear 
boy, come down this coming Sunday eVe, will you? And yet, 
how long that time does indeed seem. But 1 will wait. So my 
dear Bob 

“Au revoir. 

Yours forever. 

Pansy.” 

“P. S. — VV'rite soon.” 

“Bob! Bob: Pansy! And so you are in love with Mr. 
Randall,” said Herbert, as he refolded the letters. “Well, well, 
I am sorry indeed. How hearts do change and drift! Now they are 


L K T 11 E , uii) 

toiiclied by the tire of beauty, now enhanced by the grandeur and 
eliaracter of the soul. Xow they are led away by the niei-e 
phantom of sight. Xow, wedded to the pillar of inonumenbii 
friendship, they are slaves to true love and faithfulness. Hut yet,*’ 
thought Herbert, ‘Mie tiowers change, natures change, minds change, 
and why should not the heart? Ah! too true! but yet, only as 
the heart is puritied of the alloy of sin, as it becomes firmly rooted in 
the soil of eternal truth, virtue and character, does it become less 
tickle and vacillating.” 

Herbert thouglit of rereading them, when he heard a scuttle ou 
the second floor. Soon the cry of help NVas borne through the air. 
The sound was gone, and all was .again <piiet. Herbert listened 
intensely. 

“Wh.at’s that— and you say this to me Bob? By he.aven I’ll not 
stand it. Slie vowed herself to me. I’ll barter every thing. Yea, 
by heaven, and life, if it must needs be.” 

These words sounded very much like the words of !Mr. Frier, 
Again Herbert listened. 

“T.ake th.at, and—” but the sentence w.as lost in the din of noise 
from the sewing girls. Herbert put on his h.at and hastened to the 
ortice of Mr. Frier. He rushed in the room amid the screams .and 
confusion of the women, and there met his eyes a picture which 
his memory 'will never efface from his consciousness. There was 
Mr. Kand.all and Mr. Frier in close' contest, grappling with each 
other. Nor did they desist when Herbert entered, for they seemed 
in de.ad e.arnest, and their countenances were fixed sto.adily upon 
each other. 

Herbert, without a word, rushed in between them, and exerting 
the fulness of his strength, tore them asunder. Mr. Randall reeled 
to the floor seemingly unconscious. 

“What does this mean, gentlemen, come, tell me the cause?” 

A de.ad silence ensued. But Mr. Frier, urged on by the fiery 


L ET II E . 


40 

demon of his i)reseiit condition, nislicd {ij'uin at his opponent, and 
was about to repeat his former conduct, had not INIr. Snowdown 
intercepted him. 

“I’ll tell you. Herb, I’ll not endure his conduct. The devil take 
him. Drunk too. Humph ! A nice fellow to come here and 
intrude on my business hours. Besi<les, who pays for this oftice'::'” 

When he had ended this he rushed at Mr. Randall, and picking 
him up, bore him down the stairs and laid him on the pavement 
below, where God only knew, who would take care of him or pity his 
intirmities. 

The sewing girls had by this time retired into their respective 
room, and were resuming their special duties. But Miss Jenning, 
immediately upon entering the room, opened a discussion among her 
disciples upon the questions of social reform, in which she declared 
that not only the best circles of society were becoming contaminated 
with the tilth and lucre of earth, but also our learned professors 
who hold the most prominent positions in the schools of learning 
were forgetting their principles of ivTorm and were losing their wits 
in love and connubial friendship. She maintained that the rising 
race of Eve was too good foi* the falling race of Adam. And she 
boldly affirmed that she would remain at her machine, and stitch, 
stitch, stitch, before she would give any inan the occasion for quarrel 
in her behalf. In all these sent iments the desciples fully concurred , 
nor did they venture a suggestion or remark by Avay of variety 
or contradiction. 

“I can’t stand it, ITerb,” said Frier to Mr. Snowdown, as he 
returned from the street, ‘*my nature rebels against such actions,” 

“What actions. Frier?” asked Herbert. 

“Why, the man must be mad. Coming to my room, and in my 
very presence insulting a virtuous girl I I love Pansy Sky I And no 
one. Herb, shall mar her character or sulW her name.” 


LETHE. 


41 


“Xo one should uiidtu iuiue a good eliaracter, or even speak evil of 
it,” said Herbert, in sympathy and love. “But are you sure she loves 
you?” 

“Am 1 sure?” returned Frier, without a moment’s hesitation, “am I 
sure? "Do the rivers flow into the ocean, do the springs feed the 
rivers, do the dews feed the spring. So, the dews, springs, rivers of 
her atteetion terminate in my soul.” 

“But has she confessed all this?” argued Herbert. 

“Ayl and more,” replied Frier; “and, as a proof, you need but 
read this letter.” 

And he gave to Herbert one of the lettei*s of her own confession. 
But Herbert kindly refused to read it, saying that it was not proper, 
nor did he deem it right for him to peruse her letters. But yet Mr. 
Frier insisted, and so ^tr. Snowdown read the following: 


“Mr. Frier, 

“Mv Dear Friend — 

“Manv thanks for that kin^l letter that I received from you this 
mornint^. Harry, have vou not a faint recollection of the 
conversation we had not long since. From that day my heart, my 
very life has been with you. 1 remember the old walnut tree and all 
its happy associations. I call to mind the babbling brook, the setting 
sun I love to remember the old mansion itself, the casement archetl 
with the green ivy, the old gate, that familiar scene of so maiiy a 
crirlish sport. 1 can see the stable and the martiiFs old hereditary 
nest. It is at Vernemus where memory loves to linger and abide. 
Here our love was matched, and in the tower, when, with startled step 
we scaled the hvlder, we first imprinted the mutual kiss and sealed 
our aftet^ions. But, Harry, do'not think me rash for confessing a 
this. For within is that feeling and fountain from which issues all 

that I now confess. , , . i. i 

I would like you, provided vou have abundant leisure, to attend 

with me a reciUd at the College. 1 refer to Thursday eve. How I 
love to further explain my feelings to you, but never mind, good-bye. 

“I am yours. 

Pansy.” 

(ip. S.— Think of me.” 

“Well,” said Herbert, after some calm refiection, “it seems rathei 
suspicious.” 


42 


L E T 11 E . 


returned Frier. 

“Ye;?; but there is no need of .-darin, never mind. That she 
loves you is evident. But her gray eye is a very troublesome article? 
Frier.” 

“But what of itV” 

“A '»’ood deal of it! A"ou know what our mutual friend B^u'on 
says— 

‘Tis Jin old lesson; time approves it true, 

A)id those who know it best, deplore it most; 

When all is won that all desire to woo. 

The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost; 

Youth wasted, minds degratled, honor lost. 

These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these! 

Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 

Not to he cured when Love itself forgets to please.’ 

Tliis is the old hobby, Frier. How do you like it?” 

But Frier did not speak, and, while he was deeply absorbed in 

relleetion and self-examination, Herbert continued : 

“Not much he kens, I ween, of woman’s breast. 

Who thinks that wanton thing is \^Dn by sighs. 

What careth she for hearts when once possess’d? 

1)0 proper homage to thine idol’s eyes! 

Hut not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thj' suit though told iu moving tropes; 

Disguise even tenderness, if thou art wise; 
lirisk confidence still best with Avoman copes; 

Pitjue her and soothe in turn, soon passion crowns thy hopes.” 

“Herbert,” said Frier, “wli^v tease me like a demon, whj^ feed 
me with stones, why heap upon my shoulders the weight of Atlas or 
Oljunpus. Xature is my mother, not Art. I have but one star, one 
heaven, one haven : they are Pansy, happiness, rest. Take these 
from me, and I am adrift upon an angry .sea, without a star to guide 
me, a heaven to feed me, a haven to enter. Away I teach me no 
corrupted art nor wile of Saturn. I’ll act as a man, and if that is worth 
its current stanip, it will be well, And we, in bonds of eternal 
friendship, like Jmio’s swans, shall, indeed, move coupled and 
inseparable.” 


L E T II E . 


4:1 

“Very well, Frier,” replied Herbert, you nre a man. As siieh 
1 give you my hand. Keep your eye upon virtue'and the end of all 
your purposes will indeed be glorious. 

So saying they shook hands and parted. 



CHAPTER VIII. 


While Herbert was ascending the stairs, returning to his room, a 
messenger arrayed in a suit of blue, spangled with brass buttons, bade 
him stop. He received from him a telegram. He tore open the 
letter and read with trembling hands, 

“Mr. Herbert Snowdown. 

Your friend Clerk Koy is dead. The circumstances of his deatn 
are as yet unknown. It is thought he perished of hunger. 

Friends.” 

“And is he dead? Poor Roy, you have had a hard road to travel,” 
said Herbert, as he entered his studio and seated himself upon 
the couch. “*And died of hunger? Where were the muses, Roy? 
Where was that fire which stimulated your heart in former trials? 
Were they not sufficient to warm and feed you?” 

But the answer to it all was never a word. And a deeper 
silence crept over the spirit of Herbert Snowdown, and wrapt his 
nature in its cruel shades. It will be beneficial to the friends of 
Herbert Snowdown, to give a short biography of this said Clerk Roy, 
and show, by sad anticipation, how the fate of Roy was but the 
finished shadow, in all its weary, sable and tremendous darkness of 
the living element which was rapidly consuming the life of Herbert 
Snowdown. 

Clerk Roy was of English birth, of resolute will and undaunting 
purpose. He, in company with his family relations, early emigrated 
to the United States in search of wealth and fame. He settled down 


45 


LETHE. 

ill Cincinnati, took out his papers of naturalization, and became, in 
a short time, a citizen of the United States. In 1861 he put up 
at “Traveller’s Rest,” better known as “Traveller’s Home,” and 
immediately gave his services to Mr. Milan, a competent portrait 
painter. lIe,*on account of Roy’s startling genius and immense 
abilities, opened his generous heart in response to any of Roy’s 
needs, and also, gratilied him by liciuidating all his incurriiiir 
expenses. Roy read extensively of the best current art literature, 
gave his close attention to the stutly of antiipie statuary, and grew 
fast in the profession he had adopted. In the year 1868 he put out a 
composition which evinced high credit, both in respect to its 
handling, technic and color, and was highly exalted both by the press, 
connoisseur and critic as one of the best productions Cincinnati had 
ever seen. Even the students, who had spent their lives at the 
Academy, could not vie with or excel him. And although but a 
comparatively young man, he yet realized his wide spread and ever 
growing reputation. But reputation is a bubble which, however 
beautiful and pretty it may become, is yet tilled with naught but 
mere emptiness, that mocks the outei' brilliancy. Yet the field that 
Roy had chosen was not one ilecked with beautiful and rare fiowers, 
fertilized by sparkling and transparent waters, nor idealized by the 
wand of the poet or novelist. It was, as Da Vinci, Palissat, Giotti, 
Turner, Millet, Blake and countless others had demonstrated before 
him, a j^ath rough and thorny. This, however, he had discovered. 
“The path to the grave may be the same,” said he' to Herbert one 
day, “but the path to inglorious tame, to a remarkable celebrity, 
must and can only be attained by the truly brave.” 

In the j’ear 1874 he was independent. He opened a studio of his 
own, took up a piivate course of artistic anatomy and endeavored, by a 
sacrifice of individual happiness, to maintain his standing, both in art 
circles and in society. But yet he had a hard road to travel, up 
many calvaries, stumbling over many sharp stones, enduring 


4 « 


LETHE. 


partialism, fatigue and deprivation, sidfering nuicli from a lack of due 
patronage, until, driven by extremity, he sought a new home in 
Pennsylvania. Here his genius again spread out her quivering 
pinions, and fixing her eye forever on things distant and sublime, she 
rose, circle on circle, to the eyrie of a remarkable fame. And thus, he 
was amusing liimself, not as a child with toys it loves to handle but 
understands not, but was in every respect master of the situation. 

“And was it with him,” said Herbert, “I sat day after day, 
drawing from the same model, molding the same clay, nursing the 
same fond and envied ideals, tiying on tlie imaginary laurels of 
fame, and searching after the never dying sunsets?. And he is dead; 
while I still remain near the bosom of my mother city, a child to all 
her interests !” 

While Herbert weighs in one hand his little mite of knowledge and 
practical experience, and, in the other, the huge possibilities of 
his being, he stands quivering and amazed as he looks out into 
the mists of the future, 

“O life, of what use am 1? O fate where wil’t thou lead me? O 
give me back my childhood. Place me amid the real associations of 
my infancy and b 03 dioodI Tear from my view the awful picture of 
tortiu’e, trial and deprivation that await me I Pluck from my burning 
heart the pangs of immediate torture ! And yet— I should endure 
it all. 1 am a coward. I endeavor to shuttle oft' these scenes from 
my stage of action. Oh God ! to thee I appeal ! O daj^s 
of joyfulness, of pleasant association, of sunshine, of happine.ss, of 
heaven itself! will the}' ever again return?” 

In the depth of this meditation, he threw himself helplessly 
on his couch and wept bitterly. There he remained for a long time; 
but he arose at length and again sat upright. Put when night came 
on he drowned his sorrow and care in sweet sleep and pleasant 
dreams. 


OHArrER IX. 


The scenes shift. The slnulow's are dissipated, and the afternoon 
sun pours down his yellow litpiid upon the mansion of ll-obert SUy. 

“Clara, do come up stairs, I need your help !” 

These words were uttered bj'' Miss Pansy Sky, who was in the 
dressing room on the upper tlooi-, busying herself with her toilet. 

“I’ll be up, my dear,” rang out the voice of Miss Clara Love, as she 
bounded up the velveted staircase chanting an Italian sonata. 

Miss Love was a second cousin to Miss Pansy Sk.y. Like all young 
ladies of a fashionable tenor, she tvas anxious to study music, 
and site came to Cincinnati for no other purpose than to study 
its theory and practice at the Cincinnati College of Music. It was in 
these latter years, when industry began to thrive, and the high arts, 
notwithstanding all the opposing agencies, began anew to lift their 
gray heads above the horizon of clay and sensual amusements. 

Cincinnati was a great market. The paths reaching out into the 
four points of the compass were frequented by busy merchants 
and men eager for gain and i)rofit. The four doors were thrown 
open, and the Xorth, East, South and the West were shipping their 
choicest merchandise and richest products into the Queen City. All 
the wheels were in motion, and the hum of learning, the melody of 
music, and the noise and bustle of business mingled their notes in an 
untold version of the song of progress. 


48 


LETHE. 


The School of Design was an old novelty. The University idea 
was, although recently new, laid upon the shelves of the past. Music 
was the one rumor which grew as it advanced through' stieet and 
by-way. Mozart and Gounod were pantomimed, and the portraits 
of Beethoven, Kreuzer and Wagner were hung upon every wall, 
the kitchen inclusive. The superstitious housewife had knocked 
down the old reliable horseshoe fj-om above the threshold and had 
placed there some modern harp or lyre. So the tale ran along, and so 
the history of the city grew. 

But the College of Music was a novelty. It had been founded by 
the generous spirit of the citizens, and the plan was duly and justly 
laid out for the better education of the masses in the elements of 
classic and, it might be said with impunity, anti<pie music. It 
furnished a partial medium for the display of the city’s musical talent, 
and gave a stimulus to those whose genius pointed to a musical goal. 
It also was the means of awakening in the public breast some noble 
and exalting aspirations, the intluences of which awoke the public 
taste, and these in due turn, elevated the high art of music so far 
above the masses, that only the fashionable classes of society whose 
sufficient means permitted, were able to climb up to the educated 
point of proper musical appreciation. 

Now, to this College of Music Miss Clara Love spent the most of 
her precious time. The insignirtcant portions were spent in personal 
decorations, and at her silks and laces. Here, she endeavored to 
acquire a musical talent, and in her subsequent recitals to strive to 
gain the envied popularity of our national Jennie Lind, For she said 
herself, and everybody realized it, that nature had showered upon her 
a prodigal measure of genius and talent, of which she would have us 
to understand she was exceedingly proud. But on the other hand, if 
Nature was selfish in the distribution of her gifts, fortune was indeed' 
prodigal. For she was very wealth}", and that was indeed a 
satisfactory compromise. 


L E T II E . 


49 


“Well, Pansy, iny child,” said Miss Love, as she approached her. 
“Pshaw, I’ve a good mind to tear this skirt asunder. I’ve been 
working at it all afternoon, and still it won’t set right. It won’t, it 
won’t.” 


And as she said this she stamped her foot on the floor and 
gave the skirt a flutter with pure Satanic indignation, 

“I’ve got a good mind not to appear to-night, at all. 1 suppose fate 
has destined this. But I’ll uftt be an old maid if I have to die 
standing up.” 

Here both enjo3"ed ipiite a hearty laugh. But Pansy continued. 

“I don’t care, I'll — ” 

“Come, my dear,” said Miss Love, approaching her, “let me 
have the skirt; I’ll adjust it to vour waist.” 

. ,She dill so, and to the complete satisfaction of Pansy Sk3^ 

“Xow then, m\' dear,” said ^liss Love, arising from the position 
she assumed to adjust the dress, “^'ou may appear at the dance, and 
show your prett}" feet to the admiration of Mr, Bandall.'’^ 


But Pansy continued to look in the mirror, nor did she heed the 
words of her second cousin. She was not a coquette for nothing and 
• for her to display that weakness of her nature which she herself loved 
to caress to Miss Love, was to give her a picture of her own 
M tickleness and vanitj". Xor had she studied the character of Juno in 
*' vain. So, after a reasonable gratification of her own vanities she 
lowered her e3'es and with a giidish turn of the head began to 

( toy with her own auburn tresses. She remained in that position for 
some minutes and then, calling to Miss Love she skipped through the 
hall singing, 


“‘Know’st thou the huul whei'c citrons bloom, and where 
Tlie golden orange breatlis its fragi-ant air ? 

Wliere winds are ever soft, ami blue the skies, 

Wliere myrtles spring and groves of laurel rise ? 

Know’st thou that land, my love ? Away, away, 

Oh might I with thee ’mid its beauty stray!”’ 


■ » 


50 


LETHE. 


And as she entered the upper drawing-room the sweet voice faded 
off into a quivering whisper anti died away into a floating wave 
of aii\ 



CHAPTER X. 


‘‘In human hearts what holder thought can rise, 

Than man’s presumption on to-mon’ow’s dawn? 

Where is to-morrow ? In another world. 

For numbers this is certain; the reverse 
Is sure to none, and yet on this perhaps, 

This peradventure. infamous for lies, 

* As on a rock of adamant we build 
Our mountain hopes, spin out eternal schemes. 

And, bift with life’s futurities, expire,” 

The (lay had now entered the portals of vesper and the starry 
sentinels one by one came out to watch along the wastes of night. 
Pansy stood at an open window tind looking out into the canopy 
of heaven, wondered at the beauty of a perfect night. N'ot a cloud 
was in the deep sky. The trees rustled as the air swept slug- 
islily through the branches. The face of Xature seemed hushed 
in sweet repose, save where a bird slipped unheedingly from its 
bough, or, where the busy insect buzzed through the air, or, 
where the children, in answer to their mothers call, came stumbling 
drowsily through the shadowy by-ways. 

“And, to-night, Adelaide is to be married. Blessed night, 
thou wer’t not made for slumber. The eyes must never lose 
their brightness, the feet must never grow weary on such a night as 
this. But let the eyes grow brighter and brighter, let the feet grow 
strong, let no one complain of ennui until • the morning sun 
tips the distant spires and the merry ringing of church bells 
proclaim alu-oad the dawn of another day.” 


52 


LETHE. 


So prayed Pansy, and, throwing a kiss at tlie starry vigils, 
went joyfully into the parlor. 

Here indeed was much splendor and brilliancy. The chandelier 
was ablaze and the light, striking the hexagonal crystals spread 
prismatic colors over all the room. The six windows were hung 
with the rarest and choicest quality oi lace and were neatly tied with 
fabrics of yellow and purple. The vases on the mantlepiece 
were carved of the best marble and were tilled with fragrant flowers. 
In one corner stood the statue of Mercury made of solid bronze, and 
in the others, there was placed a small statue of Venus di ^Medici or 
Milo. The paintings, etchings and engravings beggared all poetic or 
practical description. 

It seems needless to say that Mr. Sky and his wife liad treasured up, 
in the course of thirty years, many rare paintings, vases and rugs, 
and in their recent travels on the Continent, they had canvassed all the 
great picture galleries, and had purchased from many competent 
merchants and dealers, a great portfolio of tine etchings and 
picturesque engravings. It is also needless to say that their 
money was expended for a good cause, when we remember that 
there are millions of starving people in the world, and those too, to 
whom the laying in of food and fuel is a serious item of expenditure. 

At an early hour the parlor was comparatively full, and the 
happy couple, who on this night were to be united in the bonds 
of wedlock, were awaiting the call of the divine in the upper 
drawing room. At last the friends and relatives had all gathered 
and were seated here and there, in groups about the room, 
enjoying themselves in merry laughter and pleasant conversation. 
The time arrived; the minister read the letter of the law, and 
then proclaimed the envied couple man and wife. Then followed 
the usual season of handshaking and kissing, then the supper and 
then the dance. 

Tut where was Pansy all this time? After all the guests had 


LETHE. 


53 


repaired to the dining room, wliere loving hands had spread an 
ample repast and had loaded the talde with the choicest viands, 
and where the atmosphere was pregnant with oyster fumes and 
the perfumes of salad, pineapple and other tropical fruits. Pansy, 
in company with ^[r. Frier, stole quietly into the drawing room, and 
seating themselves on the embroidered sofa, begati to chat upon 
the toj)ic of the evening. One thought introduced another. The 
occasion itself added a charming tribute to the chain of ideas. The 
sound of merry music came boating into the room. At last. Pansy 
gently entwined her hands about Frier’s neck, and carelessly 
throwing her head upon his shoulder, said, 

“Harry, I’m sc tired!” 

“Tired of what, dear?” said Harry, as he kissed her cheek. 

“'fired of thinking of— of everything, except—” 

“Except what or who Pansy?” interrogated Frier, impatient to 
know the sequel. 

“Except you, Harry,” she said. 

Frier pressed her closer to himself. It was a joyful season. J he 
music became louder and louder, and the voices of the gay company 
could now be distinctly heard. Both in loving embrace listened to the 
soft notes as they boated from the lips, and, as Pansy imprinted a kiss 
upon Frier’s bushed- cheek, she heard the words: 

“We come all iree from sorrow, 

With lightsome hearts and gay. 

And we shall taste to-morrow. 

What we enjoy to-day.” 

“Won’t our life be full ot melody and sunshine, Harry ?” 

“Yes, dear,’’ returned Harry, “and we shall be happy forever, 
to-morrow tis well .as to-day.” 

Thev hull would have remained there amid all these pleasing 
nssociations and been contented; but happiness is like the bash of 
lightning— it is but for the moment. It is a nectar of the gods, 
too sweet for mortals to endure. It steals upon the languid senses. 


54 


L E THE . 


ofttiiiies unawares, and transports us into realms of bliss. It tips the 
dark cloud of care that so often lowers upon the heart, with a silver 
star of hope. It touches the heart of resignation and of fear, and 
drives away all lingering pain. It comes upon us in our very dreams, 
and we forget that we are mortals while we stray along tlie cooling 
waters of life among the green pastures of the better land. But the 
flash of lightning i)asses away and we see and feel the bittei- contrast 
of light and shade. 

So Pans}" was called from the realms of bliss and wjis made to feel 
anew the burdens of life. In order to avoid the servant, who had 
summoned her, and fearing lest she might betray her position, she 
slipped quietly and unnoticed into the hall. The servant met her 
as she was tripping through the dining room and bade her liasten 
upstairs to bid her sister farewell. While Frier, in the meantime, 
repairing to the dining room, amused himself with the sweet viands 
and rich dishes, and, in company with sever.al of the porters, drank 
to the health of the bride and groom. 

But when it was very late, or to I .e quite rather scientific, earl}^, and 
the stars had passed their several meridians, and the breezes of morn 
were just beginning to float over the city, ISIr. Frier after, bidding 
Pansy and the merry company farewell, went sauntering to his home. 



CHAPTER XI. 


“But who can view the ripen’d rose, nor seek 

To wear it; who can curiously behold 

The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s clieek, 

Nor feel the heart can never ail grow old?” 

Bykon. 

If huniaii nature is universal in one quality, it is worship. The wild 
Arab and the American lift their eyes in worship of something 
higher, nobler and purer than themselves. Xor is it vain. Mind 
cannot be without matter, neither can love, the real incentive to 
worship be without its object. Human nature will and must entwine 
its aftections upon something, and upon the monuments of art and 
nature will the tender affections entwine their sweetest and purest 
aspirations. And Narcissus, enhanced by the reflected image of his 
own beautiful face in a clear fountain, and Antony, who neglected 
Rome for Cleopatra and her beauty, represent the extreme limit of 
this universal quality of the human heart. 

Worship among the Greeks was nothing orlier than the 
appreciation of physical action and beauty. And this idea, although 
greatly prevalent among modern circles of society, is gradually 
widening' out into a grander and nobler one. It is the worship of 
mind and heart. As was intimate<l above, man cannot worship 
anything which is inferior to himself. And Socrates, the Greek 
philosopher, who not only admired the roundness and symmetry of 
the human form, but also the godlike capabilities of mind and heart, 


56 


LETHE. 


gnispeil ill one sweep of his mighty intellect, the universal ami eternal 
tendencies of modern hero worship. Looking through the medium 
of virtue and beauty up to the God who made all things for the best 
of his children, we may discern a truth of enduring vitality, a 
worship that is, in all respects, for every age, clime and time. The 
story is told of a king, who at one time kicked some fodder to a 
starving animal, and when he died, the god of Nirviana cutting off the 
foot of the king, took it triumphantly up into heaven and worshiped 
it. It was a grander act, indeed, than the killing of Hypatia, the 
Alexandrian ])hilosopher, who, in spite of tlie reproaches and 
calumnies of a barbarous and corrupt people, dared to be virtuous 
and true to her principles. Yet, only as the horizon of man’s intellect 
lifts, as the boundaries of his heart widens, will he approach that 
grand and happj' experience which enables him to see life as one who 
honors and feels for it. In this our own age, the spirit of the Hindoo 
god is becoming rooted and fixed in our human natures. We are 
becoming idolators. But our idolatry, let it be said emphatically, has 
its genesis in the deep spiritual demands of our human nature. It 
makes the Vulcan, who can forge out of trial, responsibility and 
sorrow, a character of strength and beauty ; a Hercules, who can 
crush beneath his feet the passions and appetites of his nature; 
a Theseus, who can free the young hearts of the snares of the 
modern Minatau’’, the sublime heroes of life, and worthy not only of 
universal piaise but of universal worship. And an Orpheus, who can, 
by his music, sweeten the murderer’s heart, thrill the pn^ligil’s 
soul with new energy and life, temper the iron will of the tyrant, 
ought to be recognized as a moral Titian of the age. And so it should 
be. for the results of his labors are shown in the uplifting of humanity 
into the larger sunlight and grander field of experience. 

There are men who have so loved the man, so loved Islam and 
Mohammed, that for them they would endure all pain, and sometime 
the most ignominious deaths, so great was their measure of love 


LETHE. 


57 


and worship for character. Fire, scourge or pestilence cannot stay 
the flight of love. Death alone may droop her mortal wings and 
clasp them forever firm on the human heart. We therefoie applaud 
the action of a people who left their homes and deserted their wares 
to see the entry of Christ into Jerusalem. Who ran forth amid 
the shouts of gladness to place at his feet their best treasures, 
their rarest tapestries and their finest cloaks. But we object to that 
worship, which is prompted only by fancy, gain and selfishness, 
for the inevitable issue of that worship will he degradation to 
individual, corruption to state and suicide to religion. Keligion should 
not be cold indifterence. Nay, it should be reconciled to enthusiasm and 
feeling, 'riie moral and intellectual sternness should be done away 
with and it should be made living and productive. 

So thought Herbert, for he was a lover of the qualities and 
substances of mind and spirit in all their varieties and changing 
relations. And, as he left his studio and moved down the street to the 
Mackelsalt home, he thought how the lives of all mankind would flow 
forth in sweet, ripe passion, in a power that would renovate society, 
and establish all over the broad land, the reign of peace, love and 
justice would mankind only appropriate to his daily experiences, all 
the beauties of life and reasonably worship the great and beautiful. 
And so, while he journeyed on, his mind lingered upon the beauties 
of nature and the grand deeds of life, upon T.ethe, whose relations to 
him had now become almost vital necessities. For their natures 
were, by an almost unconscious unity, linked in harmony and love, 
thought to thought, feeling to feeling and aspiration to aspiration. 

The day was far spent and the sun lay rich in its purple folds of 
gilded clouds. The house to which Herbert was going was an 
old-fashioned frame. Three trees which graced its front brought, in 
the spring and summer time, a refreslfing air to its inmates, who 
seemed to live, notwithstanding their poverty, in all the splendor of 
domestic luxuriance. 


58 


L E T 11 E . 


It Will be well, perhaps, to state that the iiiiiiates of the house 
were Mr. and Mrs. Maekelsalt, their soil John, wlio was blind and 
an adopted girl by the name of I^ethe. Jolin was, notwithstanding 
his father’s eecentrieities, a rather goodnatured boy, of fixed and 
determined juirpose. As a basketmaker, he was endeavoring to 
amass a fortune wliieh, in turn, might put a period to Ins sole aim 
and ambition. But to laboi- against poverty and blindness in the 
support of a father and mother, did not sutter him to gain mucli. 
And his granaries Were always emptieil of their contents by the severe 
winters of dull times. Yet he was not discouraged by any of 
his domestic embarrassments , and he ever consoled himself witli the 
thouglit that, although blind and but sixteen years ot age, and with 
a very limited education, yet he was young when lie compared his 
age to eternities, and there was still more than one chance for him 
to fulfill his ambitions. 

Mrs. Maekelsalt was just too (lueer to be natin-al. Yet she was very 
frugal. Frugality being the one virtue which was inscribed above 
every door in their old cottage. Besides, she was the possessor of a 
piece of property 0!i the Southern road, a short ride from the city of 
Lexington. It was on the brow of a hill, overlooking far stretching 
meadows and gently undulating hills. For some reason she had 
never built up on the pro[)erty, liut put it in the care of a neighboring 
farmer, who by his toil and industry ke])t the weeds from eating it 
up. And it was upon this same piece of property that John hoped to 
be able, through his own individual exertions and economy, some 
day, to erect a dwelling. And further, to take thither an intended 
bride and spend his gray old age in connubial felecity. But 
Providence up to this time had been adverse to all his most sanguine 
expectations. Yet it was these very hopes and joyful anticipations 
of things that were to come“ that gave to his every trial and difiiculty 
a silver lining, and to his owri will the calm spirit of patience and 
resignation. 


59 


LETHE. 

Herbert Snowdown was very early initiated into this family, and 
soon became a confident in all their local schemes and purposes. It 
is certainly true that there were iminy things connected with their 
private life of which Herbert knew nothing. This is not strange, 
for every individual and every family have their own private closets, 
wherein they store all their corruptions, vanities and weaknesses. 
But, concerning the main issues of their affairs, he was indeed a social 
thermometer. 

Lethe, the adopted girl, was their faithful slave, and upon her back 
was heaped the full burden of home duties. It may seem strange 
indeed, that she did not rebel. Yet submission is ofttimes sweeter 
than rebellion. Still Herbert could not, however much he studied 
her condition, satisfy himself that shC was really happy. A girl so 
young and so beautiful, so gentle and so innocent, so resigned to duty, 
60 willing to bear the responsibilities that were imposed upon her , and 
without murmur or complaint, endure the harsh words, scornful 
looks, and, perhaps, chastisements of Mr. Mackelsalt, desei-ves a 

home where purity of character are not only recognized but 

cheerfully merited. 

Yet why Mr. Mackelsalt kept her thus, or why she endured it, was 
an enigma to Herbert. It was but a short tjme ago that her long 
pent up sorrow burst forth for the first time, and she unconsciously 
betrayed to Herbert the sad inward workings of the heart. 

“Could I but free her from this serfdom,” said Herbert to himself, 
“and place her among congenial friends, where bright faces and sweet 
words would cheer and comfort her, I would feel that my life 

was after all of some value, and that my searching after beauty 

love ami happiness, in forest, stream, flower, sky and human faces 
had' been' amply repaid by the rescue of an innocent and pure heart 

from the bondage of white slavery. 

Herbert stepped into the house, and unnoticed by any one save T,ethe, 
who threw to him i.er usuai kiss, took a seat. .While he was sitting 


60 


LETHE. 


in the chair, uwaiting- the arrival of Mr. Mackelsalt, and speculating 
ofttimes n[)on the character of the gentleman himself, he heard a 
murmuring noise. He listened intensely, eager to catch eacli whisper. 
At times the voices would grow louder and then again they would be 
softened down to an inarticulate sound. 

It may he beneticial to the readers, in the study of Mr. Mackelsalt’s 
character, to give the substance of their conversation, of which 
Herbert heard but that part which related to his letters. 

“Just wait,” said Mr. Mackelsalt, to his wife, “I’ll tix it. Think’st 
thou that I’m a fool? She’ll many John, or if she don’t — ” 

“Silence,” broke in the voice of a woman, “think of no violence. 
John intends to marry Lethe and the money won’t be lost.” 

“Ha! but that is well to talk about,” said the demon in alow 
cracked voice, “well to talk about. Very well,” and as he said 
this the sound of money dropping on the floor, made him remark, 
“pick ’em up! Ha! Be still! I’ve got the money, eh, eh, I’ve got 
the money and I’ll put it where the moths won’t corrupt it, eh. It’s 
a good sum,” he continued, as he patted the bag, “none of the 
relatives livin’, eh? I’ve got the papers too. The game’s mine. Ha! 
Ha! Ha! I’ve thrown the six’s, eh?” 

“Xot so loud,” interrupted the same woman, “suppose the girl 
should discover that you have the money, or the uncle turn up — ” 

“Eh, eh?” returned the old fiend. “Eh, eh, she can know nothing 
about it, and suppose she does. John is jroing to marry ’er. Ha! 
Ha! Ha!” 

His words now grew louder, and Herbert heard distinctly. 

“I’ve kept them letters of Snowdown from her, and I’ll use my 
means to make the ends meet. She can’t know anything about it.” 

As he said this, Herbert, aroused with indignation and yet 
trembling with fear, was about to rise and break in upon their secret 
conference. But while he was just about to move he heard the 
cracked voice again. 


I 


L E T II E . 


61 


“Scatter, scatter, silently, softly,” and straightway Mr. Muckelsalt 
hastened toward the door near which Herbert was sitting. Herbert 
quickly withdrew into the hall, and piping “Nancy Lee,” came 
I'unning into the room, as if he had just ended a long journey. And 
pulling from his coat a handkerchief, began to wipe the perspiration 
from liis brow. 

“So, so, its yon, is it?” said Mr. ]N[ackelsalt, as he gazed on him out 
of the corner of his eye. 

“Yes,” returned Herbert, “and I am sorry it is 1.” 

“So, so; what’s the matter? Have you heard anything?” 

“Have I heard anything? Yes! enough to make my hair stand on 
end. Where are my letters? Give them tome, or by heaven I’ll 
put you where tlie shades will eat away your life !” 

“Yes, :Mr. Herbert, here they are, here they are. I didn’t mean to 
keep them.” 

“No; nor any other letters, 1 suppose,” said Herbert, as he snatched 
his letters from the long bony fingers. “But good-bye, old fellow, 
the game is not yet ended.” 

And Herbert, with his heart fired with indignation, left the old 
fiend in a fearful bewilderment and wondering many things. 



CHAPTER XII. 


Mr. Mackelsalt was perfectly wild with excitement. His old head 
fairly shook with nige, and his body was warm with agitation. 
Herbert had taken advantage of his weakness, had i>laced before his 
mind a mirror, vvherin he saw the reflection of his 
cruelty, villainy, vice. He had shown him that tlie friendship of the 
past had been but a name, and that the confidence which Herbert had 
continually place<l in him was at last exchanged for the counterfeit 
coin of treachery and deceit. In fact, all that he had said or done for 
him were but opportunities too freely given for unfair ends and foul 
advantages. That the good will, which had always been the bond of 
union between them, was now broken forever. 

Poverty is no disgrace. Kiches gained by unfair means is a 
crime. Character in a hovel is the diamond which king or priest 
cannot purchase with gold or prayer. Cowardice is weakness, but 
fortitude, urged on by the demon of a will steeped in Inst and crime, is 
worse than weakness, and worse than cowardice. He who dies in 
defence of truth is a martyr. But he who, robed in the garments 
of ambition and villainy, boldly denies pain and defies death, even at 
the cannon’s mouth, is not a hero. Every act we do, whether gootl or 
evil, is embalmed in memory, and its effect will alas, too often hover in 
consciousness. We may wash the evil from our natures by repc-ntance, 
but the stain remains as the souvenir of its birth atid life. And 


L E 7 n E. _ 

to forget the past, were such a thing possible, is to have Jio iiieinory 
of the present. We iua\' be so iron hearted as to defy remorse 
and blindly plunge into the greater indulgence of sin and crime, 
yet there is no escape from our evil deeds. The Xorth, the bouth, 
the East and the ^Vest have no refuge or asylum. . Wherever we go 
our crime will overtake us, and we can never compromise with it 
or reconcile conscience to ourselves until we receive penny for 
penny for our every vicious act. It may not be in a day or week or 
months installment, but we shall receive pay, and every i)enny, too. 

Virtue is its own reward, and the pure in heart are alwa^'s hai»py 
and blessed. So crime has its compensations of pain, regret and 
remorse. Mortality is not the end of being. And mind and 
spirit, with all their combined impurities, move upward toward the 
pool of liethesda, where they are cleansed of all unrighteousness. 
It may be that, 

In ttic* corrupted currents of this world, 

Oflence’s gilded baud may shove by justice, 

And oft ’tis seen, the wicked prize itself, 
r>uys out the law. But ’tis not so above : 

Tliere is uo shuffling, there the action lies 
In its true nature; and we ourselves compelTd 
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faiilts 
To give in evidence.” 

Mr." Mackelsalt could not remain silent, lie raged through the 
house like a wild beast, retired into the kitchen, picked up whatever 
his evil eyes fell upon, in his eagerness to escape from the haunts of 

his evil demon. But alas ! to no eftect. 

Lethe, who had just finished her domestic duties, was in the kitchen 
sitting at the open latched window, Avhere the air, ladened with the 
rich and delicious fragrance of shrub and flower, poured in upon her. 
It was twilight and the evening star had already proclaimed the 
night near at ha.ul. Her hopes, freighted with care and 
disappointment, were stealing sadly through her eyelids. Twilight 
was indeed the emblem of her existence. Everything in her life 


64 


LETHE. 


seemed indistinct ;ind visionary. Her happiness itself, her everj 
joy, yes, all lier hopes were but the compositions of unharmonious 
elements. , And day in and day out her old, old story was repeated with 
the same sad strain, often unbroken, but seldom sweetened by any 
new intervals of melody. Her past and present were indeed realities, 
but her future was like a dream. And who would rob her of the 
thought ■? 

She had neither heard or seen anything of the quarrel between 
flerbert and Mrs. Mackelsalt, nor of his .angry disposition, until Mr. 
Mackels.alt rushed frantic into the kitchen, close to where she was 
sitting. 'J'hen she knew that something was wrong, for never had 
she seen him so agitated. True she had told Herbert about the 
interruption of correspondence, about — no, she had not even dared to 
mention his cruelties to her. But now, why does Mr. Mackelsalt 
act so strangely? Why does he cast at her such cruel and flendish 
glances? He will not kill her. The thought itself put toys of 
desperation into her mind, until, almost overcome with fear, she was 
about to rush from bis sight. But he st.ayed her. 

“Lethe?” 

“Well, Father?” 

“H.avejmu seen Mr. Snowdown, lately?” 

“Have 1 seen Mr. Snowdown lately?” said Lethe, unconscious of 
the bitter pain that his name would bring to her. 

“Come, no nonsense, answer me; or if you will not. I’ll put you 
in the cellar, and feed you on bread and water until you do!” 

Lethe shuddered at the thought. Too often had she suffered from 
cold, hunger and thirst, in that foul place; too often had she been 
dragged into its filth ; too often there had she been beaten with 
the lash, until overcome with fatigue and pain, she would sink 
fainting to the earth. Her life was worse than servitude, for 
servitude admits of some liberty; and the mere hope of liberty 
gives to the shave, even in the darkest hour of sorrow, some peace 


LETHE. 


65 


and comfort. But Lethe had, it seemed, no chance of escape — the 
very thought was deatli itself, but still, that would be, indeed, a 
boon worthy of worship, for it might end the cares of this life. But 
thank God she had a hope in the resurrection of her former self, 
when (it was years and years ago) although but a mere child, and 
clad in the ragged skirt of poverty and denial, still she lived happy 
amid untold misery and pain. Her hopes, however, seemed but the 
shadow of a past impossibility, a resurrection whose glory would be 
all the more beautiful and embracing for its postponed delay. But this 
hope was the romance which she cherished continually, the thought that 
she ever loved to repeat. To look backward instead of forward was a 
license lawfully permitted to Lethe, because it gave her a fresh and 
vigorous consolation ; and so, into her every unceasing thought, feeling 
and aspiration she weaved this tiny, golden thread of hope. Xor was 
it vain. Ah! is not the story of Pandora a reality? Care, disease 
and sorrow come upon us all, and ofttimes blast our life yet hope, 
the only gift left in the box, cheers us on, with all her encouraging 
omens, to live and endure. 

So Lethe longed to see the soft sunlight, not through a glass darkly,; 
not with eyes suffused with tears, but face to face in the full liberty 
of being. Perhaps hope is the best school in which to discipline the ‘ 
heart. For chasten life with despair, and that flower whose fragrance 
should sweeten every" avenue of our life, will soon die and leave the 
body a desolate and gloomy mansion. 

But she must give an answer. Her voice choked in its utterance, 
yet she said. 

“Yes, I have seen him. To-morrow I hope to see him again.” 

“You do, do you,” returned Mr. Muckelsalt, rushing at her, and 
about so strike her wtih his hard bony hands. “You will see him 
to-morrow! By heaven, he shall not come to this house again, and 
as for you, essence of all meanness and impudence. I’ll put you 


66 


LETHE. 


where 3*011 are most at home— where not even the sun will look upon 
you. Come!?’ 

“And as he said “this, he was about to fasten his hands about 
her neck and drag her violently down the steps, into the cold damp 
cellar. 

“Stand back!” said Lethe, as a strength of character almost 
supernatural seemed to seize her. “You shall not touch me. Too 
long have Ibeen a slave to 3*011, 1 have obe3’^ed you w*ithout a murmur 
or complaint, 1 have endured 3’^our cruelties and reproaches, but 
now, I dare you to touch me ! I demand mv* rights ! I claim 
my liberties! And should you dare to touch me ’twill not be 
long before \*ou will be where I have never been,” 

Mr. Mackelsalt retreated. He paused; he e3^ed her from head to 
foot, and then reversed the operation, but he said never a word. 
Perhaps he was surprised at her unusual courage. Xow he might 
see how soon the calm breast of ocean heaves when agitated b3* the 
winds of fortitude. He saw how weakness ma3’' become strength, and 
his OAvn villain3* a poor supporter of cowardice in time of severe 
trial. 

“Assert 3*our rights?” he at last bellowed forth. “Claim 3*our 
liberties? What rights, what liberties? Povert3* and shame! Fie! Sit 
at the window, hope, hope, hope, ha ! ha ! ha ! look at the beautiful sk3'*, 
the singing birds, at the dog basking in the sunshine, the waving 
trees, ha. ha, ha! They’ll clothe you, eh? The3*’ll give 3*011 a place to 
sleep? Thev*’!! feed 3*011, eh? Go starve, slave, beg, steal, disgrace 
yourself and 3*0111- good mother, who once loved and cared for 3*011 ; 
Go seek your end in a — ” 

“Stop,” cried Lethe, “do not dare to speak disrespectfully of me, 
do not dare to take 1113* name or my mother’s name in vain . Would 
that she were present now, perhaps then, you would not dare to say 
this. But no ! I should not call her back to life. I wrong the dead 
to think it. But you should be dead. You, who told my poor 


mother on her dyin^ bed that you would be a father to me, but now, 
that she is dead, torment and ruin me. Oh God ! have mercy on 
me! Requite my sufferings and bring him who now wishes to 
torture me — ” 

But Lethe could not say another word. She burst out in tears before 
she had ended the sentence. She wept as if her young heart would 
break, while he who made her weep retired into the next room. 
Lethe continued to weep for a long time, but at last yielded 
to the consolations of that ministering angel, who regards the 
sorrowful and wipes away all tears from their eyes. She resumed 
her seat and remained at the window looking out upon the dark sky, 
until the hours grew very late, when she sought rest in her own 
room, whe:e the same kind angel attended her in pleasant dreams. 



V 


CHAPTER XIII. 


When the morning sun arose and the world was again awakened 
for another day’s toil, Ijethe was sent out upon her usual errands, 
but, with this special restriction that she talk to no one and be back 
as soon as possible. Yet Lethe did not observe the restriction, but 
hastened with all possible speed to the studio of Herbert Snowdown. 
Herbert was already up and doing, and was sitting at the eastern 
window, where the sun poured in upon his canvas. Lethe knocked 
at the door. It was opened by Herbert, who received his beloved in a 
Avarm embrace. 

“I have something to tell you, Herbert,” said Lethe, as she looked 
into his eyes. 

“Xothing sad, Lethe?” inquired Herbert, as he took her soft hand. 

“Xo, Herbert, 1 should rather say it was joy. But you are not 
interested in dreams, Herbert, are you?” 

“Ah! Lethe, nothing gives an artist greater pleasure than the 
picture of a beautiful dream. Its qualities are so very soft and 
fleeting, so much better than life, that I have often preferred the 
dream to the reality it may evolve. You know that an artist 
seldom flnds the models for his compositions on earth, and dreams, 
which are the messengers of heaven, bring to the artist all his 
beloved forms. Yes, Lethe, 1 love to hear a dream.” 

“1 thought you did,” said Lethe, as her eyes fell from his face, 
“but you will not laugh at me Avhen I tell it?” 


LETHE. 


G9 


“No, Lethe, I could not laugh at her I love.” 

“But it was a beautiful sight. When I went to sleep my eyes 
were tilled with tears and my heart was weighed down • with care ; 
but I soon forgot these, as the dream stole in upon my sleep. 

I dreamed that we were both surrounded by difficulties. Care and 
deprivation was on every hand, but at last a light broke through the 
clouds, and a hand reaching down even to our very feet, it seemed, from 
heaven, lifted us up to a place flooded with perpetual sunshine. 
You were with me as I arose, but when the elevation was reached 
j^ou were not there. And I wept bitterly — for 1 was alone. But we 
shall yet be truly happy, Herbert. Is it not possible?” 

“Yes, Lethe, for possibilities are but the fultillment of hopes. 
Our prosperity is awaiting us in the future and our Eden is yet 
to come. Let us hope on, and build up day by day, that ladder 
wheron at last we may climb to the grand summits of liberty 
and peace. But, Lethe — ” 

“What, Herbert?” 

You must live no longer at the home of Mr. Mackelsalt. Prepare 
for the worst. I am poor but yet 1 have a heart and hand to, feel and 
work. I will accomplish something in my art, and when the hours 
are dark and dreary, I know that the same God who comforted the 
son of man in all his sadness and deprivations, will likewise provide 
for me.” 

“But, Herbert, if 1 leave, where can I go in safety?” 

“Where can you go, my child? Where would you go, Lethe 

“Few love me, Herbert. I am but a poor orphan. I—” 

“Lethe, do you love me?” 

“Herbert?” 

“Won’t you answer me, Lethe?” 

He took her hand; he pressed it to himself. He gazed into her 
eyes .md entreated her to speak. She faltered, hot her silence w-as 


70 LETHE. 

not through any cause of doubt. Herbert’s heart was, indeed, too full 
for utterance. 

There is in some moments of love a beautiful and enduring charm, 
more precious and more vital than life itself, but in those hours, 
when the heart recognizes its affinity, sees in its own clear depths 
the reflected image of the heart it loves, there is a feeling that 
thrills the senses and transports the soul into heaven itself. 
Happiness is then but a weak name, and definitions cannot 
embrace the infinity of joy. Lethe’s heart swelled with an 
indefinite emotion ; she must utter one word — will it bring misery 
or joy? The welfare of future years seemed pending upon the issues 
of the moment. 

Tears of joy fell upon Herbert’s flushed cheeks, as Lethe, gazing 
into his tearful eyes, said : 

‘‘Yes, Herbert, I do love you.” 

“Then we shall be married to — ” quickly and unthoughtfully, 
replied Herbert. 

“No, not to-morrow. 1 must receive the consent of my guardian, 
and if he refuses — ” 

“What then, Lethe? You would not forsake me, then?” 

“No, Herbert. I — I shall be true to you, and the consent of 
five hundred guardians could not separate me from you I” 

“That is a noble and a good reply, Lethe. And may 1 prove 
faithful and loyal to your sacrificing heart.” 

“But I must be going now, Herbert, so good-bye. But one 
question, Herbert?” 

“And what is that, my child?” 

“You will not come to the old home to-morrow. Promise 
me you will not?” 

“I promise you, Lethe. So— good-bye.” 

Lethe departed, and left him with thousands of future hopes, 
rushing into his soul. No icebergs loomed up before his mind; no 


LET II E 


71 


thorny paths nor rugged hills, hut all was one level i)ath, reaching 
out among green pastures and beside still waters, into the eternities 
beyond. And a happiness unruffled, tranquil, divine, possessed his 
heart. He took up the burden of life with new strength, with 
cheerfulness and patience, thinking only of the Eden that was to 
come. 



CHAPTER XIV. 


“Xo— dread, uiilookM for, like a visitant 
From th’ other world, he comes as if to haunt 
Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight; 

Long lost to all but memory’s aching sight— 

Sad dreams! as when the spirit of our youth 
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth 
And innocence once ours, and leads us back, 

In mournful mockery, o’er the shining track. 

Of our young life, and points out every ray 
Of hope and peace we’ve lost upon the way!” 

Moore. 

Six months have passed away, with all their joys and sorrows , 
the winter winds have mellowed into the warm zephyrs of spring, 
the month of May has opened the envelope of another beautiful 
resurrection. Xature's pulse beats happily and the flower, the 
waving grass and the clear blue sky call forth the sons of men to 
enjoy a new and hoh’^ life. The drawing room, lately ablaze with the 
bright light of the chandelier, and noisy with the sound of laughter 
and conversation, has lost its charm, and society courts witli winning 
favor the hill, lawn, wood and glen as their beloved Pantheon. 
Mankind generally, laying aside their woolens, velvets, laces, satins 
and plushes, sport their pretty shades of luster, cotton, silk, gauze, 
lawn and even checkered calicoes. 

It was again Sunda}', and Herbert leaving his studio, went forth 
to enjoy the morning air. The generality of mankind were up and 


L ETH E. 


73 


arrayed in those garments, wliich on Sunday more than on any other 
day, suggest on especial neatness, taste and beauty. Herbert gazed 
at the prodigal as well as the eccentric display of taste, both in 
the learned and unlearned, the rich and the poor. He tarried very 
often to linger on those faces, where care or tranquil happiness 
abided. He marvelled oftimes at the extravagant efforts put forth by 
the poor to veil their povert}- in the pantomime of dress. He smiled 
at the rich, who suftered their better selves to drift in the current 
of popular vanities, and who tried very hard to display their social 
superiority and higher ethics by affected manners. He pitied the 
deformed, the lame, and the blind . He hoped for the better time, 
when all social inequalties, mental frailties and bodily deformities 
would be adjusted to an eternal principle of right; and when this 
haughty monster, which we rightly call self, would be the last dish 
served on the common board of life; when mankind, universally, 
would awaken to the golden opportunities about them, for mental as 
well as spiritual growth, in order that they might not need a death to 
call them to the sober duties of life, or a springtime to the seasons 
for sowing and planting. 

“Be careful, John,” said Herbert, as he took the hand of the blind 
basket-maker and led him across the street. 

“Is that you, Mr. Herbert,” asked the poor blind boy, when he 
reached the other side. 

“Yes, John.” 

“I knew it was; for there are few, yes very few who are as kind as 
you are to the blind..” 

“Kind, my dear boy*?” said Herbert, somewhat surprised. 

“Yes, Mr. Herbert; for I tread these streets many and many a day, 
but very seldom do I meet with a willing hand. I have stood for 
almost an hour, waiting for a hand to be offered to me, or a voice to 
say kindly ‘Sir, this is the way.’ But the willing hand is seldom 
offered and the voice— it is like the voice of an angel when I hear it.” 


74 


LETHE. 


Ah! wliat a dreary life the blind do lead. How sad it is to be 
a stranger to the beauties of this external world. To merely hear the 
mention of a flower, a tree, a beautiful sky, a pretty face and only 
know a mother, a father or a friend through the voice of sympathy and 
love, and be divorced from the smile, and expression of love, sympathy 
and joy. Oh, how painful it is to be shut out from those blessed 
associations which so often exert the most praiseworthy power upon 
our young lives. Think for a moment of what we lose, when we are 
blind ! How we wander forth day after (hw along the clear water, the 
sunny hill, the green pastures and tlie shady grove and return home 
with the same old-fashioned picture before our eyes — darkness. And not 
onl3'^day after da}", but year in and year out to never see the approach 
of morning or evening, to never see a cloud or a bird; but isolated 
from Nature’s works, to live on and on in the hope that some day the 
light may arise above your mental horizon — but alas, only hoping ! 
Yet sometimes when I think of those countless millions, whose eyes 
are bright and healthy, who use their sight for naught but lustful 
purposes, for gazing at nothing, but that which is low and mean, 
who never appreciate one single thing in the great garden of 
Nature’s beauties and glories, when I think of this, 1 often sufter 
myself, to doubt whether the gifts of God are always justly and 
rightly apportioned. But yet they say the blind have a boon, a 
spiritual world wherin the atmosphere is eternally pure, where never 
a cloud drops a tear, where never a sun brings ravage or disease, 
where the flowers endure forever and the waters are always sweet. 
VVe hope this may be so, but while they live among us may we lend 
them a helping hand, give them freely out of our measure of 
kindness and virtue, for they need it, and until God has adjusted 
every seeming wrong, bound together the severed threads of human 
experience, straightened the crooked sticks, may we contribute our 
mite to the happiness of the blind and receive, if we wish, our 
merited reward. 


LETH K . 


75 


After a yhort silence the blind boy; (for boy he was), asked Herbert 
whether he thought he. icould ever again see the flowers, the green 
grass and the birds? He implored Herbert to tell him wliether or no 
he thought he ever would. 

“My dear boy,” said Herbert, “the same God who cares for the 
robin and the sparrow, and who clothes the lilies of the field will 
surely open your eyes!” 

“But the night has been a long and dreary one, Mr. Herbert,” 
sobbed the child, “and I feel certain that when the day does come, it 
will be all the more glorious for its long delay.” 

“Yes, John, the night may be dark, indeed, it may be dark, 
but joy will come with the morrow, and we shall, as you say, 
appreciate the blessed time all the more when it really does come; 
the roses must be crushed before they emit the sweetest fragrance, 
the eyes of the bullfinch must be pierced out before it sings its 
sweetest notes. Yes, John, misfortune will make us appreciate 
prosperity when it comes, and your dark and dreary night, when it is 
awakened by the song of morning, will bring you increasing joy.” 

“Yes, Mr. Herbert, when it comes — when it comes, alas!” 

lie continued to speak, telling about his own business, how he was 
working very hard at the bench and waiting patiently for the better 
times. In his conversation he grew rather philosophic. He spoke of 
hope and purpose; how aim, urged on by a steady zeal and ambition 
accomplish whatever we may undertake in this world ; how every 
man is great who finishes his purpose. He went on to say that the 
future generally compensates for all of our past sorrows and 
tribulations with an abundance of good things. Often he spoke of a 
future settlement, and how he then hoped to be happ^”^ forever. But 
sa3"s he, 

“What’s the use of hoping, Mr. Herbert? I’ve had my plans fixed 
a thousand times, but they have all been broken !” 


“Broken?” 


76 


LETHE. 


“Yes, Mr. Herbert; but not by me. 1 toil on day after day. I 
work hard at the bench. I get a little money and try to save it; 
and ’tvvas but the other day that I found it had all been stolen. Then 
besides father has driven Grace from me, and now, witliout a guide 
save this stick, I wander forth alone.” 

“Indeed, John, these things are very sad. But why was Grace 
driven from you? She was a good and honest girl. I have known 
her for years.” 

“Ah ! Mr. Herbert, she was as you say. I’d sooner have her 
guide my steps than my own father.] Why, Mr. Herbert, we grew up 
as bo}" and girl, and then — as lovers. But now — ” 

“Well, my dear boy?” 

“But now that she is gone, life is indeed a burden. VVliy, JMr. 
Herbert, what is the use of living? I get no sympathy at home. 
Father beats me, and mother, who should care for me, laughs at my 
blindness and deformit 3 ^ Grace and Lethe were mj' only friends, 
and now, since Grace is gone and I am left alone, wit}' I had as lief 
be dead as living.” 

Miss Grace was a good girl, poor, it is true, but endowed with 
those charms and virtues, which cannot be obtained with the wealth 
of Borne or the power of Ci\?sar. She was of a sweet and cheerful 
disposition and of passing intelligence — not a skilled student in the 
Greek or Latin grammar but an angel, nevertheless, among her 
friends, and wherever she went her socieW was sought after, and 
courted for the sweet lessons of encouragement and good cheer she 
would unselfishly and freelj" give. Her soft grat' eyes had that 
gentleness and beauty about them, which so often wean the human 
heart from the more fascinating idols of dress, and her ej^es spoke a 
deeper language than could be read bj' the mere figured beauty' on 
their surface. And there was something in the composition of the 
girl that had, in some manner or other, early attracted John, when 
but a mere boy and she a playful child. But why Mr. Mackelsalt had 


L E THE. 


77 


placed his long bony fingers between their two hearts, and endeavored 
to sever those relations which had bound their affections together 
from childhood, was a mystery to him. Herbert had seen a little of 
the world. And to merely look in upon the world through 
an open crack, or a half inviting window, and thus see the vices 
of society, gives, ofttimes, a far better knowledge than to be a 
participant in the vices and vanities themselves. Herbert had seen 
the fiiir fjice of virtue cast aside for the fickle, vain and inconstant 
heart of the syren. He had seen character, the very capstone of 
womanhood and manhood, sold in the market of the world for a 
small piece of silver, or for the hope of hugging vanity and 
corruption. In his studies of ancient history he had particularly 
noted the Helens, Cleopatras, Didos and Francescas; but yet he 
could see no trace of evil in the character of Grace Lucerne. The 
scheming villain, Mr. Mackelsalt was, again shuttling his cards, 
thought Herbert, and whether Lethe was destined to receive the 
unlucky lot he was unable to divine. 

“But, Herbert,” said John, as he drew nearer to him, “1 know the 
reason of it all ; I have not eyes to see, but I have ears to hear and I 
heart to divine. He want’s me to marry Lethe ?” 

“Marry Lethe? You are too young, and besides — ” 

“Yes, Mr. Herbert, I knovv I am too young. I love Lethe, but I 
cannot marry her. I love her, did I say? Tell me, Mr. Herbert, 
who does not love her?” 

“I cannot answer you, John,” returned Herbert, as his voice 
faltered. 

“Ah ! Mr. Herbert, I have been good to her in all her sorrows — 
I have been as a brother to her. I have thrown myself between her 
and father when he would try to beat her, and I have received the bitter 
blows. But I wish to make her happy, Mr. Herbert, for her life is so 
dismal, dark and sad. Oh, coidd I but see her face! If the sun 


LETHE. 


\ 


78 


would only be bright enough to take away iny darkness. But 
I am determined Mi*. Hej-bert, not to 'many her. She loves — ” 

“Who, John ; tell me if you know?” earnestly begged Herbert. 

“Why you, Mr. Herbert. You are the sun to her— she has 
whispered that to me again and again. Ah ! she was not made 
for a poor, sad, blind boy ! She needs some noble heart, some bright 
and earnest eye,- some pleasant face, some one who can look into her 
soul and saj- ‘she is beautiful,’ she is Lethe Reynolds, a true noble 
hearted girl. She needs some heart that can appreciate her, Mr. 
Herbert?” 

“Why, I should not tell j^ou of the suffering I receive from 
father and mother — but I am blind. I have nowhere to go; I must 
obey or rebel and if I rebel, then I’ve nowhere to go in God’s great 
world. Father beats and starves me, takes ofttimes from me the 
little money I make, and never thanks me. I don’t see the world ; 
but yet if you only knew the care and sorrow that broods on 
my heart — yet I’ll endure it all. I’ll place myself between him 
and Lethe, though he kill me — and let him kill me. ’Twill end my 
miseries here.” 

“John, you sliould not think thus?” 
was he to, who made me blind.’’'’ 

“He made you blind? I thought that you were born blind?” 

“Ah! no! Mr. Herbert, he did it when I was quite young; but tell 
me, Mr. Herbert, won’t I again see the blue sky and the waving trees 
— tell me, won’t I,” 

Herbert could scarcely restrain his tears, but yet he said, 

“Yes, John, God will some day give you back your eyesight; 
but, be patient and all your good deeds will receive their proper 
acknowledgment. Be kind to Lethe, and tell her that I will soon 
make her happy. Be good to her and God will repay you, though 
blind, with that happiness which the world cannot jrive 
nor take away. I am poor, John, but here, take this piece of silver, 


L K T H E . 


70 


use it for your own liappiness, niul may yon never want that which 
the wise men of all ages have sought for in vain.”. 

“God blessjon, Mr. Herbert,” he said, as he stretched out his soft 
tender hand to receive the mone}^ “God bless j'on !” 

At last, after shaking hands, Herbert bade him good-bye, and went 
slowly away to his studio. 

“Ah I’ thought Herbert, “there must be a remedy for the blind, 
among the prodigality and abundance of God’s mercies and healing 
ointments. Why is immortality given to mankind, it not for the 
purpose of adjusting all wrong, strengthening the weak, healing the 
diseased, the blind, and the illproportioned brains? If it be not so 
wliv are they given the boon of immortality, which brings upon their 
soul naught but the continuation of pain and remorse. Ah ! he spoke 
truly who said, ‘they shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore, 
for the T.amb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and 
lead them unto living fountains of water; and God shall wipe away 
all tears from their eyes!’ ” 


CHAPTER XV. 


Five months have almost passed away, and it is a morning in late 
October. The winds rather brisk, were rocking the tree tops too and 
fro and were stripping them of all their bright and golden foliage, as 
the sign of the approach of a severe and bitter winter. Herbert was 
at home in his studio. His mind was saddened with the many tales 
of sorrow and disappointment he was continually hearing of Lethe’s 
deplorable condition — but what could be done? 

He had seated himself at his easel and was about to finish 
a sketch for the Academy, when a letter was brought to him. 

“Do you wish an answer, sir?” he said to the gentleman who 
carried the letter. 

“No, sir?” 

“Good-day !” 

“Good-day, sir,” returned Herbert, with laconic brevity. 

Herbert was struck with fear. Could it be a letter from Mr. 
Mackelsalt — could Lethe be dead? He quickly tore open the 
envelope and read the contents. It was written in a lady’s hand, and 
bore a lady’s superscription. It read thus, 

“Dear Herbert! 

Mr. Mackelsalt is dead; come and see me. I can say no more.” 

Lethe.” 

“What,” said Herbert to himself, “Mr. Mackelsalt dead ! How can 
it be possible? Is it really so? Who killed him? Did he die 
a natural death ? At all events can it be true?” 


LETHE. 


81 


Such questions rushed into his mind ; but the occasion did not 
furnish any time for question or debate. Lethe bade him hasten, 
and so, putting on his coat and hat, he went down the street to the 
Mackelsalt home. Everybody seemed to be in his way, and he 
often stumbled over the most trivial things in his eagerness to reach 
Lethe. 

When he arrived he met John at the door sobbing bitterly. 
Herbert bade him be quiet, saying that no one could call him back to 
life, and if they could, who would vouchsafe to do so since where he 
is, might be perhaps, his better home, 

Mrs. Mackelsalt then appeared. She was much subdued, now, and 
displayed characteristics of a higher quality of religious composition. 
She explained to Herbert the suddenness of his death; how, before 
he had retired, he counted all his pieces of gold and silver, received 
all his papers, bade her good-night and then told her to call him 
early; how, when the morning came, she tried to awake him, 
but he would not; how she continued to call him and shake him, 
but alas! in vain, for he was dead! Here she burst out into a 
convulsion of grief. 

But Herbert, in all of Mrs. Mackelsalt’s sorrow, did not shed a tear. 

The house, during the time the body remained in it, was filled 
with frequent groups of relatives, friends and neighboring 
acquaintances. Xow some old friend, who had more pity than love, 
would give a short biography of the deceased; Jiow, he would 
extol his virtues, now his noble character, but never for a moment 
would he linger upon his vices and frailties. Some would speak 
among themselves and tell how he had planned to live happy, and 
how he was, even in the maturity of his hopes, cut off from their most 
ardent realizations. Sometimes a stranger to sympathy and love 
would approach Lethe and ask the poor child what she would do now, 
(putting particular and select emphasis upon the word now), and 
when, after telling her what she had already discovered to a limited 


82 


L E THE. 


degree, that the world was a great and rugged mountain, filled with 
sharp stones and tangled briers and thorns, she would bring the 
tears into Lethe’s eyes, the cold hearted wretch would look toward 
the window and smile with a perfect satanic satisfaction. 

But the days wore on until Thursdaj’^ came. Tlien the family took 
their parting ghtnce of the great artificer of meanness and 
pronounced the last farewell. As he lay in the coffin his face looked 
troubled and condemned; no calm, resigned, sweet smile lay like the 
soft, tender light of morning upon his countenance. There 
was no feeling of rest or silent composure about the body, 
but the lifeless form gave to all minds the idea of an internal 
disturbance. 

But he was taken from his ‘wayside inn’ to the cemetery, where 
Ids evil clay was forever laid at rest; his hands free of mischief, and. 
Ids soul, that centre of all meanness, cruelty and cowardice, mounted 
upward on spiritual wings, with all its imperfection and un- 
righteousness, to the higher life. 

By this death Mrs. Mackelsalt was in reality none the worse off, 
but Lethe and John were made the victims of a somewhat milder 
fruelty. 



CHAPTER XYI. 


But what could now be done for Lethe ? Fate made the breach . 
Before Herbert left the Mackelsalt home he told Lethe to prepare for 
the worst. He told her further that he had resolved to come this very 
night and receive her to himself; he begged her, therefore, to leave 
the door that led into the yard unlocked, to be up late, and when all 
had retired, to escape into the yard, where he would be ready to take 
her to “Travellers Home.” He also said that he would be at the 
.cottage about ten o’clock, and that the sign of escape would be a 
pebble thrown at '^her window. He also said that he had procured a 
license for their marriage, and that they would dispense with the 
necessary ceremonies. Besides, he added, that he would keep a 
watchful eye upon the actions of Mrs. Mackelsalt, and as for John, 
he would do all that he could to make him happy. So saying, he left 
her almost hesitating, ofttimes doubting—but with her consent. 

It was evening. The air was full of moisture and very cold. The 
dark clouds in the distance were giving tokens of an approaching 
storm. 

Herbert left his studio and moved down toward the Mackelsalt home. 
The old frame, tipped with the mellow light of the full moon, stood 
forth like a spectre. The shadows along the street, which marked 
the diminished perspectives of the several dwellings, were full and 
heavy. As heneared the premises everything seemed dark, save 


84 


LETHE. 


where the soft 2jlimmering light of a candle fell upon the hollow air 
from a window hard by. Ten o’clock was now ringing out its 
remorseful lay upon the icy air. The streets were almost deserted. 
The wind was whistling up the byways. The clouds were now 
enveloping the canopy of heaven — not a star was visible. The 
eager air, rustling among the branches of the trees, sent chills of 
terror through Herbert’s limbs, and yet he feared nothing, for his 
cause was a sacred and holy one, and gave to him no remorse 
of conscience. He approached the house, and gazed up at the 
window. He saw her reflected image on the green curtain. Moving 
on tip toe, he drew nearer and gave the sign. She heard — she came. 
They were one. They were gone. 

As the night stole on the snow fell in thick flakes. Yet the happy ■ 
couple, heeding not the cold or storm, moved on amid the falling 
snow. Lethe had gathered together her portion of clothes and 
sundry articles, and having tied them neatly in a bundle, had given 
them to Herbert, who was carrying them under his arm. They 
moved on and on through the dark streets, almost orphans. Voices 
blending in a sweet evening hymn of prayer came floating out upon 
the air. They paused to listen — 

“Sweet is the prayer, whose holy stream, 

In earnest pleading flows, 

Devotion dwells upon the theme, 

And warm and warmer glows. 

“Faith grasps the blessing, she desires, 

Hope points the upward gaze; 

And Love, celestial Love, inspires 
• The eloquence of praise. 

“But sweeter far the still small voice. 

Unheard by human ear, 

When God has made the heart rejoice, 

And dried the bitter tear. 

“No accents flow, no words ascend; 

All utterance faileth there; 

But sainted spirits comprehend. 

And God accepts the prayer.” 


. L E THE. 


85 


They both listened until the music stole away to live among 

the clouds. On they moved, the sad yet happy children of a 

seemingly cruel destiny. As they journeyed on Lethe repeated, 

“But sweeter far the still small voice, 

Unheard by human ear, 

When God has made the heart rejoice. 

And dried the bitter tear.” 

“Lethe, my dear child,” said Herbert, “you must be very cold.” 

“No, Herbert, I am not cold, for in all my veins flows a new 
life and spirit.” 

“Lethe, my child, you are now at liberty, but alas! only to 
be made the more wretched and miserable.” 

“Come, Herbert, you have taught me in the past many lessons of 
hope, courage, jierseverance and self-denial. And I ajn prepared 
now to endure the worst. But why talk of trials, Herbert, 
when we are one. Trials have come when you were far from me, 
but now that you are present, this snow at our feet changes into 
flowers and the cold icy ^^'inds, into warm zephyrs fragrant with the 
perfumes of spring. Do not fear, Herbert; I will do my part 
to make your life one long summer day. — But you do not doubt 
me, Herbert?” 

“Doubt you, Lethe? No, Ido not doubt you, I had rather 
doubt myself, but yet, Lethe, you cannot think of the awful fate that 
is upon you. The toils, the anxities, the deprivations, the despair, 
all crowd in upon my mind. Oh it makes my spirit faint within me 
when I do but think of it. Before my eyes the terror and danger of 
your greater captivity seems to appear. Your face is pale and wan, 
your body has loss its vitality, your eyes, which are now so soft seem 
without expression. You long for some unknown isle. You crave 
for anything that may release you from your bondage— but, believe 
me, Lethe, Herbert toils on patiently, enduring it all with you. He 
labors night and day. Nor does he often seek repose. His rest, his 
strength, his health, his time, all, are sacriflced for Lethe. His love 


86 


LETHE. 


— I must not mention love. Forgive me, Lethe, for what I have said? 
They are all idle fancies! Yes, freedom is dearer to me than any 
other gift and Lethe must enjoy that gift.” 

“Ah ! Herbert,” said Lethe, “from a child I have been taught the 
ways of poverty. Why should I now fear to walk in them? Can 
luxury and wealth buy happiness. Yo, Herbert; and although we 
live and move in abject poverty, let us submit our wills to Providence 
and avoid shame and disgrace. Let us have hope and patience and 
then let come what may ; for the eyes of wealth as well as the eyes 
of poverty have their equal share of tears.” 

“Yes, Lethe, you are right. Hope and patience will give us peace, 
even in the deepest and darkest hours.” 

Closely united they moved on. The street loungers looked upon 
them with a sad surprise as they passed by. 

“See, Lethe, at a distance are the lights of ‘Travellers Home.^ 
We shall stay here for a time and rest. To-morrow, Mrs. Mackelsalt 
will, no doubt, be out in the search of you. But remain in your 
room, Lethe, and all will be well.” 

They arrived at the hotel. Thej’^ mounted the stairs, shook oft* the 
snow, entered, enrolled their names at the desk and retired into the 
room assigned them. 



CHAPTER XVII. . 


That same iiiglit the cold became very intense, and when tlie dawn, 
with her dappled rose and white, tinged the eastern horizon, she 
smiled upon the white shroud that covered the great city. 

As soon as it was day and the city was wide awake for struggle and 
gain, no expected search was made. Yet in the humble home of the 
Mackelsalts there was great surprise and seeming sorrow. . ]N[rs. 
Mackelsalt and John were nodding their heads together as the 
bearded wheat, when agitated by the gentle winds, and 
touching upon every conceivable subject, they were endeavoring to 
probe into the mystery of her unexpected disappearance — but to no 
avail. 

But when Mrs. Mackelsalt, in a gossip with some of her 
neighbors suggested an evil opinion, such as an elopement Ihe 
neighbors shook their heads and speedily extolled the character 
of Lethe, bringing in, by the way of argument or personal 
vindication, I-iethe’s repeated acts of kindness to them, her deeds of 
charity and love, all of which they claimed w^ere indeed sufficient 
proofs of her noble and unfailing character; but Mrs. Mackelsalt 
would only nod her head and, with an air of indifference, retreat 
into her chamber. 

But John could neither work nor be at heart’s ease. Nothing was 
left to him now, for Grace had been snatched from him, and Lethe, 
wdio had of late become the very lamp to his feet and guide to his 


'88 


LETHE. 


hand, was no more. Again and again did he stop in his work to 
think of Lethe. More than once laying aside his apron did 
he take up his hat and guiding stick, and, threading his way out 
into the street, lose himself among busy humanity. 

'Jdie afternoon passed away and Lethe was still in her room 
awaiting the arrival of Herbert. 

Toward evening Herbert left his studio and was sauntering down 
the street toward “Traveller’s Kest.” He was whistling a tune 
when John, the blind boy, recognizing the air and attaching to the 
individual who was whistling it a familiar name, said, 

“Mr. Herbert, is that you?” 

“Yes, John,” siaid Herbert. 

“I’ve sad news to tell jmu?” 

“And what can that be,” inquired Herbert. 

“Lethe has left us. I’m searching for her now. But I can’t find 
her. I’m blind — I can’t see. Have you seen her?” 

Herbert pondered seriously before he gave an answer. Should 
he say yes, Lethe would be betrayed. Should he say no, 
then he was purjuring his soul. But he was willing to perjure his 
soul if he could retain Lethe and keep her happy. So Herbert 
resolved to give him no satisfaction, thinking that, perhaps he had 
been sent out as a spy bj^ IMrs. Mackelsalt. And so he said, 

“And you are out searching for her?” 

“Yes, Mr. Herbert, but she is not lost or ruined. I’m lost. I’m 
ruined.” 

“But she was a pure and good giil, John, the quintessence of 
affection.” 

“I don’t know the meaning of that word, Mr. Herbert, but she was 
pure as this snow ; but, Herbert, if you should ever see her tell her that 
I shall make her rich and happy some day. Let people come by’the 
window of my shop and laugh at me, because I am so busy ; but 
lam working for Lethe. Let them laugh at my deformity, let them 


L E THE. 


89 


say ‘come out into the open grove and see the birds.’ But why 
should I care for their laughter or jeers. Yet it is sad, indeed, that 
she has left me, Mr. Herbert, I can’t get over it!” 

“On with him, march him — hush you ” 

These words were uttered by a policeman, who was dragging a 
little boy violently off to prison.” 

“Please sir”— plead the boy, “1 had to do it— my mother sir?” 

“Yes I know your mother. That is always your plea.” 

Herbert watched them until they faded out of sight, when John 
again said. 

“But I’ll work all the harder now. And if you should ever see 
her tell her the gain will come in the end.” 

“My dear boy,” said Herbert, as he took his hand and tried to 
cheer him, “toil and frugality will make us all happy, some day. 
And a persistent and unfaltering aim will bring us all to good 
fortune. Yes, John, the end will justify the means, and the gain 
will compensate for all of the toil of yesterday and to-day. Fruition is 
the flower of industry, and happiness is, after all, the end of all labor 
and suffering, 'foil on, John, hold fast to the right and it will not be 
very long before you will have relief from all your temporal ills and 
embarrassments. ’ ’ 

They then shook hands and John felt somewhat relieved and 
encouraged. Herbert would have tarried longer, but he told him 
that it wasgrowing quite late and cold, and so, after bidding each 
other good-night, they hastened to their respective homes. 


CHAPTER XVllI. 


As Hei-bert neared the hotel he saw Lethe sitting at the window. 
A dim light was burning in the room. Herbert mounted the stairs 
and entered the room where Lethe received him with the same sweet 
smile and kiss. 

“I am so glad you have come, Herbert, I have been waiting for’ 
you, I might say, all day. You told me in the morning that you 
were not feeling well. Are you better now, Herbert?” 

“A little better, Lethe, in fact much better. It was but a passing 
cloud. But come, Lethe, sit beside me and now that we are both 
sheltered within this ark of safety, tell me love, how you came under 
the guardianship of Mr. Mackelsalt.” 

“Ah ! Herbert, the story is a long one and I am afraid — ” 

“Xever mind the length Lethe, I will make all amends for that.” 

“It was in the year 1866 when father died and mother and our 
little family were thrown upon their own responsibilities. Mother 
took to sewing, while I — ” 

“Well, Lethe?” 

“You will forgive me if I mention it, Herbert,” continued Lethe. 

“Speak out my love and fear me not. Poverty is no disgrace.” 

“While I, Herbert, begged; and, with basket under my arm, went 
from door to door, friend to friend, enemy to enemy.” 

Here she burst out into tears. The experiences of by-gone years 
came to her consciousness with all their chilling realities. The 


LETHE. 


91 


memory of the past was again before her, aiul slie saw lier former self 
as she bad always seen it from the standpoint of pain and bitter 
recollection. 

“Onr family board was a precious one, Herbert, although it was 
scantily provided with the necessities of life, and there our little family 
grew and became strongly united in the bonds of unity and love. We 
each labored hard together, but grandmother who was old and 
feeble, could not do much. I did not beg long, for grandmother 
although old and feeble, took my place, and I was again sent to 
school. 1 begged her earnestly to remain where she was and be 
happy, but she said she never could be happy if Lethe were left to grow 
up without an education, and so I suffered her and, unwillingly, 
yielded. I remained at school several years, until mother died, when 
I was again compelled to follow my former occupation. Thus 
I became acquainted with human nature and the many kinds of 
character. Even now I can see my girlish form as it was in 
years ago, clad in a ragged skirt, cloak, blue hood and torn 
shoes, going up and down the wide streets of this large cit}' , 
motherless and fatherless, a stranger to almost everything except 
pain and poverty. But grandmother, who h id reached the age of 
seventy-two, grew weaker and weaker in strength and courage, and 
at last, on an evening of September, 1870, just when the leaves were 
turning into gold and vermillion, she died. Thus I was indeed left 
alone to battle with the hostile world.” 

“But how about Mr. Mackelsalt,” inquired Heibert. 

“But Mr. Mackelsalt, who had been my mother’s most intimate 
friend, took me under his care, and there I have been until you, 
who proved my second mother, redeemed me and gave me my 
former liberties.” 

“But, Lethe,” said Herbert, “you often spoke to me about a 
younger sister— I think her name was Constance ! She was a sweet 
and loving girl, was she not? When did she die ?” 


92 


LETHE, 


“She died thirteen years ago, Herbert, after a sickness of two 
weeks. Everybody that knew her loved her; but poverty was 
too hard a master for her, and the fated discipline, alas ! produced her 
death. While she was sick she suttered greatly, but her many 
friends, who came to see her, bringing warm toast, fruit, milk and 
other things, cheered and comforted her. Xor did they ever 
tire in asking how she was. Some, indeed, who understood the 
depth of a child’s nature, would say that little Constance will soon 
be up and doing and that we should never fear. And so, we were 
comforted. Her Sabbath School teacher would come and visit her, 
and, sitting near the bedside, would sing the liymn that 
Constance loved so dearly, and it did all who heard it much good. 
Then, folding her arm about her neck, she would tell her of 
Christmas that was near at hand, and of the songs and verses they 
were learning to recite and sing for that blessed time. She 
would also tell her of the man}' children who begged their teachers 
to mention their names to her; and then, as Constance would w'eep, 
she would sing to her the song again that she had sung so often, and 
Constance would feel indeed blest. Often, yes very often, she would 
ask for grandfather, for she dearly loved him.” 

‘''Where was he, Lethe ; was he not near herV” 

“No: Herbert, he was iu, the tavern drinking away his life. And 
so she lingered through until Christmas eve. At nine 
o’clock she asked me if grandfather had not returned yet. ‘No, 
dear,’ said I, ‘but he will soon be home. I will put the candle at 
the window and perhaps he may see it and come the faster.’ But 
little knew she that he was dead.” 

“Dead, Lethe?” 

“Yes, Herbert, dead. He had gone to the tavern, and having 
failed to pay for his liquor, he w'as thrown out into the snow, where 
he perished of cold.” 

“Ah ! what a sad fate, Lethe.” 


LETHE. 


93 


“Yes, Herbert, it is, indeed, a very sad fate. Later in the nij^ht 
she grew very restless. At times, she would hold up both her hands ^ 
and in her sleep try to speak, and then again she would lay so calm 
and motionless. As the night wore on the winds without 
grew very strong and the snow fell fast and thick. At 
eleven o’clock an angel smiled upon her and God took her 
silently away. 1 blew out the candle at the window, for little 
Constance met her father where there shall be no night — nor need of 
a candle. It was strange, Herbert, for one to die on the cold lap of 
Nature and the other amid the warm affections of home, both to die 
asleep — but to awake, thank God, in clasped arms, mortality being 
swallowed up in life everlasting. Not unclothed, Herbert, but 
clothed upon . 

“But, Henry, my uncle, who came, home the very same night 
Constance died, and threw himself drunk upon the bed where she lay 
cold and motionless, has never been heard of since, for the disgrace 
and pain occasioned by such action drove him far away from his 
dear home. Perhaps he too is dead. God only knows.” 

Herbert listened to her tale of sorrow like Dido of old to the woes 
of A Eneas. He thought what a beautiful thing it must be for one to 
die who lives not for this world nor of this world. It is far better, 
thought he, to go to the flnal resting place, wrapped in the garments 
of poverty and virtue than to enter the “Gates ajar ’ naked to all 
love and virtue. 

As we live so will we be paid, and we reap only what we sow : 
Corruption reaps corruption, and virtue, with all her retinue of graces, 
reaps incorruption, life everlasting, immortality. There need not be 
a contest in this world for the high places in the world that is 
to come. God is no respecter of persons. As we live here so will we 
be merited in that world, but not with a crown, as many expect, not 
with a prize, as many hope, not with a special seat, but with that 
consciousness of a life well spent, while a sojourner on earth. 


94 


LETHE. 


which will give us no remorse of conscience or shadow of regret. 
Like the small measure and the bushel, we enjoy life only to our 
capacity, and he who is an alien to virtue in this life will, even 
though he repent by the modern processes of orthodox redemption at 
the eleventh hour, be a stranger in the city whose streets are paved 
with gold. So he who denies the world for the sake of a spiritual 
position in the local spiritual world. Mill miss his aim and be, indeed, 
mournfully disappointed. There are no reserved seats in the 
spiritual church of God. Selfishness is a coin of no value in the 
sight of God. We should be men and noble men, because the waj'^s 
of manhood are peaceful, the paths are pleasant and full of sunshine; 
and he who beggars his spirit in this world will, indeed, have a task 
to feed it in the new world. God is revengeful in as much as he 
will deal justly with every man, nor suffer himself to be mocked. 
We must build a noble character, and the sooner we commence the 
better and wdser w^e will be for it. The way back to virtue from sin is 
longer and rougher than from virtue to sin. It pays in the end to be 
virtuous. So thought Herbert, as he gazed thoughtfully into the 
falling embers. 

But it was growing late. The lamp was burning low, and both, 
with thoughts lingering at the threshold of heaven, gave themselves 
into the arms of sleep. 




CHAPTER XIX 


The sun is beginning to set, and om* little world, whose progress the 
reader has watched so closeh% is now nearing the portals of night. 

“Hallo, Charles,” said Herbert to Mr. Frier, as he entered his studio ; 
^‘take a seat. By the bye. Frier, how is law. ” 

“Oh, law is all right, but it is very hard, lassure you, to pick up a 
livelihood. 'So place for young aspirants.” 

“Why, how so?” queried Herbert. 

“The place is overrun. Our colleges are yearly emptying out 
their new stock, the old seem to live forever; and so, bj" the 
aggregation of the alpha and omega, there is scarcely any room for 
those countless multitudes who hold the middle ground. Sow. if 
we could force a few divorce cases and the like, we might, at the risk 
of our own characters and fortunes, and, at the expense of snftering 
humanity, gain a reasonable patronage.” 

“Yet it seems to me. Frier, that the demand for lawyers is as 
great as it ’always has been? There is surely no falling off in the- 
demand for good, sound and healthy heads?” 

“You are right. Herb; and, in our present civilization, the demand 
for sound heads is always inadequate to the supply', and I am glad it 
is so. It arouses greater competition and legitimate struggle. It is 
ah incentive to the Freshman and Junior as well as an encourage- 
ment to the Senior. In fact, it gives us all courage and hope. It- 


96 


LETHE. 


does more than this, it places before our minds the possibilities of our 
profession, and those honors which the lawyer can only claim by hard 
work and a life-long application. 

It makes the* early impression upon the mind of the aspirant that 
the arena in which he contemplates moving, is tilled with huge 
obstacles that he must encounter and push aside; besides, it 
demonstrates the fact that frugality and economy never compromise 
with laziness and prodigalit3^ That the Bethlehems as well as the 
Romes of this life are two diametrically opposite levels, from which 
man may rise to the grand summit of popular praise and honor. And 
so we find in the stud^" of an individual life, that he only ap'proaches 
,the paramount distinction in character, progress ar.d success, who 
admits of no such word as ease, self-satisfaction and indigence in 
his vocabulary of actions. Frugality and sacrifice should be the 
characteristic qualities in all we do, and the propelling force to all we 
undertake. And so, I have come to this conclusion, after a few j’ears 
of careful study, that the only way for a man to gain popular and 
envied favor is to live and die for the people. The incentive that 
urges man to the highest and grandest undertakings must be pure 
and holy, not selfish or base. Gracchus, who fell a victim at the altar 
of popular honor and good, may have been unappreciated and despised 
by the leaders of his time — so with Brutus and countless others ; but 
that, indeed, should bj' no means impede our ambitious or exalted 
purposes. For the path to honor and distinction is just as broad, if 
not broader, in our times as it was in the times of Cicsa)’ and Xapolean ; 
but it takes a man to run the race and reach the goal. 

“After all, the idea of Socrates and Plato, of nullus in singulis aliquis 
in omnibus is false and unreasonable. “Nothing in a single thing 
and something in everything” does not pay in this business world; 
it may in the other, but I’ll study up on that before I decide.” 

“I think it was Whipple,” broke in Ilerbei-t, '‘who said that the 
one prudence i)i life is concentration, the one evil, dissipation.” 


LETHE. y; 

line, Herbert, and it is but tlie eclio of tlie old story. Success is 
within the grasp of every man, and it is just as possible to be great in 
this age of gain and competition as it was in any previous time. Yet it 
takes and has taken a long time for mankind to learn this lesson, 
that./?a;%of purpose is more available in the end that volubility of 
aim. We all know that scattered energy is not as forcible in its 
results as concentrated enei-gy, nor a'vacillating and undetermined aim, 
as decisive in its results, as a determined purpose. After all, Herb, it 
is the pi-oper adjustment of our faculities to the needs and 
requirements of our natures, upon which depends largely our success; 
and hence it is that I object to the discipline of modern education. 
It puts in but does not draw out, in other words, it fails to teach man 
howto apply himself to the best advantage in life. The aim and 
wish may be right and just, but yet the ends do not justify the 
means. It endeavors to till man with practical priftciples, but yet 
ends in deadening all aspiration and nascent purpose. The 
principles read well in the book, look well on the black-board, sound 
W'ell to the ear, but yet fail to be useful ; and the virtue of any law or 
principle is always estimated, in a mathematical sense, by its 
usefulness. The school system must be revolutionized, the plans of 
discipline thoroughly ventilated, and the “plane board” reality done 
away with before the orthodox schoolmaster will receive the 
sympathy of practical men. 

“Feeding the mind and filling the stomach do not give proper 
strength or nourishment to faculties and vital tissues, said Herbert, 
as he moved his chair nearer to Frier.” 

“No, indeed; and so N. P. Willis has wellj said that ‘all 
knowledge is not nourishment.’ ” 

“And so, in training the mind, school discipline ofttimes leaves 
the faculties and heart undisciplined. Filling the mind with 
intellectual baggage it leaves the engines of the mind 
unschooled. But mark! I do not say that modern education 


08 LETHE. 

contributes nothing' at all to the usefulness of mankind. It does 
a great deal. It may give man wisdom and worthy subjects 
for thought and observation. It may strengthen his attentive 
powers; but I doubt much whether it calls forth man’s noblest 
aspiration, or aids him, in the least, in finding his place in the 
world. Now, this seems to me, should be the end of all education and 
unless it does this, it fails in its true mission and enterprise. 

“Yon don’t mean to say that the basis of modern education, is 
properly laid, but the superstructure poorly adjusted?” 

“That is just what I mean exactly I” 

“But should you destroy the superstructure, what would you build 
on the basis instead?” 

“Why just follow out the base lines and the superstructure will 
adjust itself.” 

“But the fundamental princiide of education gives liberty to man 
to eat only what is digestable and beneficial?” 

“Exactly.” 

“If so, do you believe that the education or discipline for the 
masses is good for the few, or vice versa, or, what is applicable 
to the ignorant is likewise applieable to the wise?” 

“To a certain extent I believe that that principle holds good. But h 
yet, I never could see why the few should suffer for the masses, save 
as a benefit to mankind. It may not be just to arrest a stai'ving 
man for stealing a loaf of bread from one who has a superabundance, 
but the law steps in as a protection for the masses. And so ; 
individual happiness, as well as welfare, are ofttimes jeopardized for 1 
the good of the multitude. In law, whatever applies to the one ' 
applies with equal force to the other, independent of principle or 
justice. Wealth and power may at times tamper with the law and ' 
thus gain reeonciliation or compromise. The fact is the same in j 
every branch of business. Yet, in respect to educational matters, it i 
is a very hard question to answer. I believe that theory should 


LETHE. 


99 


always yield to practice, and that the study of Probable reasoning 
should be more enforced than that of Demonstrative. I believe that 
the classics should be even more subservient to the utilities of life 
than they are; that a literary mind should receive his proper 
nourishment as well as a mathematical mind his. Mathemathics, 
as well as the classics, are not dishes for all palates. Among students, 
there should be allowed some privilege of discrimination. To 
reason well is not the result of mathematics or logic, nor 
to write well the result of the study of Greek and Latin. 

“I know that a veiy few people are masters of themselves. The 
same God who made the firm beach, made yet the ever tossing wave. 
We may decide upon one thing to-day, we may decide upon another 
to-morrow. Evolution is a quality of the mind as well as of the 
«arth. Circumstances are congenial to growth and decay, permanency 
and transition. Still, it seems to me that the schools of learning 
should not monopolize all principle, law and license. They 
should grant some liberty to the students, especially to 
those who feel their conscious powers, they should grant a 
wider margin and a more bounteous freedom, independent of 
discipline or system. As the spirit cannot be hemmed in by 
creeds, so the mind cannot be confined to systems. And, until 
our institutions grant a proportioned liberty to mind and spirit, 
we cannot look for the higher advance of mankind.” 

“But yet. Frier,” said Herbert, “it matters very little to a true 
man, whether he has these liberties for proper growth and 
development or not. He will inevitably appropriate to himself only 
what he can utilize, and, if schools trample on his sacred dignity 
and rights, yet they are never backward in claiming the 
selfsame individual, when he has arisen to fame and distinction. 
Why should he look to superficial gains, who claims to be 
a philosopher? Whose very life is an open declaration and 
disregard for mere seeniings and show. He sees the goal of his 


LETHE. 


100 

■ life? He needs no incentive, lie requires no bone to be held up to him 
as a compensation for his sorrows, deprivations and neglects, or as 
an encouragement to persevere in the good cause; for his nature is not 
impelled to noble deeds by that which is attractive without, but by 

that which is sacred and charming within.” 

“True, Herb; your words are freighted with wisdom, but in order 
to gain our end we must be self-sacrificing, we must suffer, we must 
endure many miniature Gethsemanes, we must toil up many 
Calvaries, before we may even see our goal clearly ; but we should 
never be discouraged, but rather hopeful, never yielding to 
procrastination or slothfulness, and finally we will, in the autumn of 
our purpose and actions, have the satisfaction that we have done our 
best and we may then gather in the sheaves.” 

So saying. Frier bade Herbert good-morning, feeling as he 
journeyed forth, that his time was indeed very profitably spent. 



CHAPTER XX. 


It may be well for us to iiiiger a moment, and recall all the fond 
recollections of Mr. Frier and Pansy Sky. Their friendship did flower 
into love, and as lovers, they had walked happily together for quite 
a time, but at length there came a season of doubt, yes, even of 
change over their united afteetions. The summer air grew chill and 
cold, the flowers lost their beauty, the sky grew dull and leaden 
and all things wore a melancholy and a sad aspect. 

Alas! how light a cause may sever kindred association and 

companionship! How easily, how soon may two hearts dissent, and 

those, too, that sorrow, care and storm have more closely united. But 

the time does come when separations bring eclipses upon our nature, 

and such eclipses, which seldom know a transit, for they endure 

forever and ever. A look, an unkind word^ an action wrongly 

taken, a broken promise, will transform the heart into a flery and 

cruel monster and the eyes, which were at one time so full of beauty, 

love and tenderness, itito horrible spectres, that follow us all through 

the journey of life. 

“O you that have the cliarge of love, 

Keep liim in ro.sy bondage bound. 

As in the fields of l)li8S above 
He sits, with flowerets fettered round 
Loose not a tie that round him clings, 

Nor ever let him use his wings. 

For even an hour, a minute’s flight ^ 

Will rob the plumes of half their light. 

Like that celestial bird, whose nest 
Is found below far Eastern skies— 

Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, 

Lose all their glory when he flies.” 


102 LETHE. 

But Frier wouia not be baffled, for he was in earnest. He had, 
liowever, gone too far, they were engaged. 

It was an evening in August, when he journeyed to her home. His 
heart was filled with pain and anguish, but she greeted him with 
that same cold smile and said, “I am so tired.” Again and again he 
would visit her, and again and again would he be greeted in the old 
familiar way. 

Again, it was evening, but a beautiful night in September. Frier 
and Pansy were alone in the drawing room. They were sitting at the 
western window, where the soft light of the autumn moon, just 
sinking below the horizon, fell upo^n the fioor, and where the zephyrs, 
in soft rustling murmurs, toyed with Pansy’s fiowing tresses. It was 
a time as Virgil would say, when quiet peace steals upon the 
minds of languid mortels and creeps upon them as a gift of the gods, 
most sweet. For a long time they would not speak. At length 
Frier looked into her face — she dropped her eyes. He begged her to 
call his name — she struggled to obey. He implored her to tell him the 
cause of her silence, still her fickle nature did not betray itself. She 
liesitated and then said — “nothing.” 

And so their love ripened; but notin rich mellowed perfection 
and beauty, as Frier had expected, but in doubt and chilling 
uncertainty. 

Days rolled on, bringing but the continuance of hope and despair 
— but at last Frier was convinced. Her unfaithfulness became 
manifest. How? No one will dare to say. He took his letters, and 
again with much effort toiled to her home. He met Pansy in the 
hall, she did not greet him as usual, but, laughingly, imprinted a 
kiss upon his face, burning with an internal heat. He would have 
given to her the letters and demanded his own, but a strange 
feeling stole over his senses, such as when we linger on the 
threshold of our dear homa, before we journey forth alone, in a new 
and foreign world, or, when we take the last smile of a parting 


LETHE. 


103 


friend, Avhose form, perchance, we ma}^ never see again. Frier now 
thonght that he was in the wrong, and as she smiled, the clouds of 
doubt and pain were driven from his heart and the emblem 
of purity again appeared — l)ut yet he chided her. She then looked 
disdainfully into his eyes. He chided her again. She feigned 
sadness and regret. He continued to chide, but not in anger. Xay ! 
his chiding wore the stamp of sympathy, love and redemption. She 
fell at his feet and begged forgiveness. They arose, and all was again 
like a summer day — calm, tramiuil, liappy. Is it not strange how the 
green ivy throws its tender arms in loving embrace and reverence 
about the seemingly dead trunk of a tree, when tliere are so many 
stately laurels, myrtles, poplars and elms it could woo. 

But the hour stole on, and darkness dropped her sable cloak over all 
their love. The joys of the past were hid in the sorrows and tears of 
the present. The day of separation came— that cold, damp, 
uninvited, cloudy day, which chills the existence of nearly every 
human heart. It came, it has come, and so will continue- to come. 
Their novel was ended, and each heart was given the sober chance for 
calm retrospection. He returned to her her love, he received his own. 
Pansy reached out her hand to bid him farewell. Frier paused, but he 
gave her his hand, and thus put the tinal seal upon that friendship, 
whose birth may have been doubtful, but whose death seemed real 
and certain. 

Frier returned to his oftice and had a dream. He fancied he saw 
her as she lived in years that were to come. She loved, but not 
another; her future was one long winter full of rain and darkness, her 
life, one long tale of regret and disappointment; and as for himself, he 
was with her in all her journey, but, like Christ, when he walked 
toward Emmaus, with two of his beloved disciples, she could not see 
him. He was with her as one ever present and never absent. He 
loved— but only her who had made him so miserable. 


CHAPTER XXL 


“I’licre, thou— whose love and life together fled, 

Have left me here to love and live in vain— 

* 'I’wined with my lieart, and can I deem thee dead. 

When busy memory flashes on my brain? 

Well— I will dream that we may meet again, 

And woo the vision to my vacant breast; 

If aught of young Remembrance then remain, 

Be as it may Futurity’s behest. 

For me ’twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest !” 

“A moment, sir; 1 wish to ask a question.” 

/i’hese words were uttered by a man dressed in a sitit of black, of 
middle stature, and of sad countenance, and were addressed to Mr, 
Robert Randall, who had just left the court-house and was return- 
ing to his office. 

“I say, sir, do you remember a j'oung lady in this city by the name 
of Lethe Reynolds — Lethe Reynolds?” 

■“Lethe Reynolds!” said Randall, as he put his hand on his chin 
■and looked the man in the eye. 

“That is her name, sir,” quickly responded the stranger. 

“Lethe Reynolds,” said Randall, as he* continued to gaze at the 
man ; “I think I know her. She is some kin to the Mackelsalts, eh ?” 

“Well, no,” said the stranger, “no kin — but mere friends.” 

“O, yes !” said Randall, as he doubled up the two words into a reas- 
onable circumference. “Yes, sir, I can tell you where she is; but, 
before I impart the fact, may I ask your purpose, sir. Does it involve 
any serious matter in respect to legal manipulation?” 


L ET H E. 


105 


“How is that, sir?’’ asked the strangei-j unable to see the drift of 
the thought. 

“I mean, sir, do_es your purpose involve any legal business?” 

“A little, sir.” 

“For self, or individual?” 

“For both, sir.” 

“Money or.poverty?” 

“Money, sir I” 

“Then step this way, sir; to the next corner, and I will gratify 
your curiosity.” 

They both walked down the street until they arrived at a certain 
cornel-, when Mr. Randall pointed out with perfect satisfaction, the 
building which bore the name of “Traveller’s Rest.” 

“By the bye, sir, where is your oftice?” 

“Here is my card,” said Mr. Randall, as he gave him his name in 
black and white, “and if you need any legal help, why — ” 

“I’ll give you a call,” replied the stranger. 

“Thanks, thanks; good-day,” said Randall, all in one breath, while 
the stranger hastened down the street toward “Traveller’s Rest.” 

AVhen the stranger arrived at the hotel he opened the door, entered 
into the small hall and asked for the proprietor. In a short time an ill- 
natured looking woman, with no prepossessing ({ualities save ugliness 
and disgust, made her appearance and incpiired of the gentleman’s 
business. 

“Madam,” said lie, “1 liave journeyed over two thousand miles, 
and spent quite a respectable fortune in search of a young lady liy 
the name of Lethe Reynolds; and I found, by inquiry, that she is 
here. Now — ” 

“Lethe Reynolds! humjih ; yes — I suppose you are some kin to the 
Mackelsalts, eh?” 

“No, madam. I once knew them; but — ” 

“But, sir, may I ask your name — if you don’t think me too impar- 
tial. I mean — ” 


100 


LETHE. 


‘‘Inquisitive, 1 suppose,” said the stranger. ‘‘\Vcll, madam, my 
name is Henry Keynolds — the lost uncle to Lethe I” 

“Henry Re 5 molds?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why he is the man who deserted her, his home, his — ” 

“Yes.” 

“And has never been heard of since?” 

• ‘‘Yes,” 

“Who was a drunkard, a spendthrift, a — ” 

“Madam, the time does not permit of such actions; so do not throv* 
invectives at my character. I was once as you say; but now, thank 
God, I am a clianged man.” 

“Well then, sir,” said the woman, hardl}’^ recovering from the 
excitement into which she had needlessly tlirown hei'self, “may I ask 
your purpose?” 

“1 wish, madam, to make Lethe happy.” 

“Make her happy, eh?” 

“Yes.” 

“You had better make me happy first, sir — she owes me for half a 
year’s rent.” 

“Madam,” said the stranger, after a pause, “you will receive your 
money before 1 leave this house. Will 3 ‘ou lead me up to her room, 
or may I see her here?” 

The old lady, who was now overwhelmed with delight at the 
thought of receiving her money, could scarcely contain herself— she 
c onld not be too kind. In her endeavors to take the sti-anger to Lethe 
she cjime in violent collision with several of the boarders, who escaped 
with no little injurj^ to their feet and ankles. 

“Lethe! Lethe!” she cried out so loud, when she neared her room, 
that every one on the same floor opened their doors with wonder and 
astonishment, to know the cause of the unusual proceedings. 

“Yes, Mrs. Coddle,” said Lethe, in answer to her call. 


LET HE. 107 

‘‘Here is a gentleniaii who wishes to see you. There you are, sir, 
step in, step in, sir — there.” 

And, while the door was being closed, Mrs. Coddle went hurriedly 
to the clerk’s desk. 

“Lethe, my dear!” said the stranger, “don’t you remember me?” 

“Sir I” answered Lethe, somewhat surprised at the intimacy he 
assumed. 

“Don’t you remember your uncle; he who wandered away when 
your sister died — don’t you remember—” 

“Henry?” 

“Yes; Henry, your uncle. He is a new man now, and brings to 
you good news.” 

They recalled one another’s former selves, and for a long time were 
unable to syeak on account of joy and grief; but at last Mr. Rejuiolds 
told her how her grandmother’s words had been realized, and Lethe, 
whom she had always said would be truly happy, had at last received 
the pension. Lethe could scarcely believe it, until he made every- 
thing so clear and conducive to belief, that she was compelled to 
throw aside every shadow of a doubt; she then wept for joy. The 
past now became a dream — the last round of the ladder was reached, 
and she stepped off into the realm of enrthly bliss and happiness. She 
thought of Herbert. 

But Lethe soon began to rpiestion her uncle as to how she might 
obtain the money. He thought of Mr. Randall, and bade her go with 
him to his office; but she kindly refused, saying that she preferred 
rather to remain. And so .he suffered her; and, after a mutual kiss, 
hastened to the office of Mr. Randall, and spoke to him about the 
pension . 

“A’'ou can only receive a pension, sir, when you can produce suffi- 
cient evidence for 3 ‘our claim,” said Randall, as he ran over the pages 
of the latest work on that subject. 

“All evidence is in our ftivor, sir. The pension was registered and 


LETHE. 


108 

given out by the Government some time ago, and I presume it is now 
in the hands of the agent, awaiting the arrival of a claimant.” 

“Let us see,” said Rand ill, as he adjusted his hat to his head and 
picked up his cane, “let us step up to the agent’s o-'tioe.” 

They did so; Randall went to the desk and made the cause known, 
and received tor the encouraging answer that it had already been 
drawn. 

“By wliom, sir!” asked Mr. Reynolds, in a fever of excitement. 

“By one, sir, who claimed to be the child’s guardian.” 

“The child’s guardian?” said Mr. Randall. 

“Yes, sir; and his name is— is— you can read this, sir;” and he 
gave Mr. Reynolds the book, wherein was enrolled the name of Mr. 
Mackelsalt, 'guardian . 

“Mr. Mackelsalt?” * 

“That is his name ; yes, sir,” said the clerk, as he resumed his work. 

“But, sir, he is an imposter — a fraud, a — ” 

“The Government has nothing to do with that, sir.” 

“But it—” 

Here Mr. Randall restrained him ; and, to avoid a quarrel, he bade 
him be quiet, saying that the Government alwaj'S gets the best of a 
quarrel, and that it were best for him to go immediately to the home 
of Mr. Mackelsalt and claim the inonej'. 

“But,” said he, “have you the papers?” 

“Papers! Why, no; they were given to Lethe.” 

“But, come ; let us go to the Mackelsalts’, and, if villainy is strength 
or weakness, we shall soon know by their actions.” 

“They went and found Mrs. Mackelsalt alone in the house, and 
made known their cause. ' They oft'ered vehement threats ; they made 
Mrs. 31ackelsalt fairly quiver; they produced a paper, which Mr. 
Randall claimed was a warrant for her arrest, if she did not immed- 
iately handover the money. Mrs. Mackelsalt, like her husband, was 
a coward at heart, and the least mention of law would put terror in 


LETHE. 


109 


her soul — they urged no further. Mrs. Mackelsalt recognized Mr. 
Henry Reynolds as the lost uncle. The money and papers were 
lianded over to the rightful parties, who left the premises, thinking 
what a game they had played at the expense of mere chicanery. 
They counted the money and conferred with the papers. There was 
lacking a difference of fifty dollars; but, saying nothing about 
this, they took the net proceeds, which was quite a fortune in itself, to 
the orphan child, Lethe Reynolds. 

Lethe was still in her room. They told her of all that had 
happened, and then gave her the money, asking her whether it 
was not heavy? To which she could only laughingly reply, yes. 

But Lethe was not satisfied. She begged Mr. Randall to run with 
all possible speed to Herbert’s studio and tell him that she had, at 
last, received her fortune. 

He w'ent and found Herbert reclining on a bed. His face was pale 
and wan. Mr. Randall was surprised. He hastened toward him, 
and asked whether he was ill? Mr. Randall would have gone 
for a physi(^ian, but Herbert bade him be patient and stay, saying 
that he was now beyond the reach of cure ; and as he spoke his voice 
grew quivering and low. Mr. Randall knew; not what to do, 
whether to run to Lethe and tell her all, or to go for a physician, 
contrary to his wishes. But Herbert, holding up his arms, motioned 
him to be composed. At one time he w'as about to speak, but his 
voice failed him. Mr. Randall now took hold of his hand— it w as 
very cold. Again he tried to speak. 

‘‘See— see that painting— there? Give it to Lethe. Say that I 
painted it. Tell her I’ll be home to-night, never fear; I’ll be 
home.” 

He endeavored to rise, but his strength failed him and he fell upon 
the couch exhausted. Herbert’s hour had come. Overwdielmed 
with grief and anguish he sought no more the delights of this w^orld, 
but that gentle spirit w'hich had so often administered to his w^ants 


110 


LETHE. 


WHS, tliOLigil absent, ever near him, and Herbert could see her sweet 
and honest face, her soft bine eyes, her angelic form ; he could hear 
her musical words now, even more distinctly than ever. Lethe was, 
indeed, a vision to him — perhaps her real and true nature. 

But Herbert had now lost his consciousness, and he wandered from 
the realms of possibility and reality. Again he tried to speak, but only 
whispered softly. 

“ ’Tis twilight? Move my couch to the window, please; I wish to 
see the last raj's of the setting sun.” 

He grew paler and paler, and his voice softer and softer. Mr. 
Randall looked upon his face. It had the look of heaven, not earth, 
and that same, sweet smile which he had so often seen upon his lips, 
weaved its heavenly beauty, there anew. He moved him to the 
window. 

“Look — look — that is Lethe — ” 

“Yes, Herbert; and she is happy. She has received her fortune. 
She—” 

“Don’t ijou see her—/ see her sweet face— Oh, how beautiful.” 

Here Mr. Randall burst out in tears; but he held Herbert’s almost 
lifeless hand, wlnle he continued, his voice growing weaker and 
weaker, 

“She beckons me to her— her face is bright with joy. We will be 
happy, Lethe !” 

“Yes, Herbert; you will be happy now — you will think no more of 
misfortunes.” 

“We will be happy, Lethe — we will be happj* — ” 

He ceased— and his sweet spirit left its mansion forever. Randall 
tried to lift him, but death had done its work; and that life which was 
a blessing to all, while it breathed upon earth, sought its new and 
welcome home above, among brighter and fairer scenes. 

The sun set, and the purple clouds, tinged with a beautifnl gold, 
cast their soft light upon his lifeless form. 


LETHE. 


Ill 


He died of a broken heart, although his dearest friend, like a 
ministering angel, was ever at his side — the end all may divine. So 
has it pleased fate that some should sutler; but the Easter morning 
will arise when God shall wipe away all tears from all eyes, and when 
the former things will indeed pass away. 








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